Puke
by Lapulta J.R.R. Cahill
Summary: No, this story is not about puke. It is about Unconditional Love; the love that can conquer all. I believe fully in it, as much as I believe that Heaven is Paradise. I search for love, and I search for Paradise too.
1. Chapter 1

**Puke**

_**This story is a story of love-**_

_**No. Chop that.**_

_**This is a story of **_**unconditional**_** love. Yes. There is a difference. In fact, that's the entire point of this story. Though others may have different opinions, like Katherine to my right with the hangover, who says to write here that vodka ruined her day and to never believe anything I say. But I think she disagrees with me merely to disagree with me. In my mind, there is no point of being 'loved' if there is no motive of unconditionalism, or a hope of to-be unconditionalism. Love **_**is**_** to be unconditional. Love itself **_**is**_** unconditional.**_

_**In the past, this love was found easily. Now, it is not. It is being replaced by attraction and quirky things stuck so subtly in the mind that only the grace of God can weed them out. Therefore, I write this, and this is why I feel so strongly about it. If I cannot find what I need here, then it is up to me to find someplace else to locate it.**_

_**Katie says not to go to the bar in NY on 64th and Quita in your search. I say, quoting Kiba in Wolf's Rain: "They say there's no such place as paradise. Even if you searched to the ends of the earth, there's nothing there. No matter how far you walk, it's still the same road; it just goes on, and on. But in spite of that, why am I so driven to find it? A voice calls to me, and says: Search - for paradise.**_

_**And so I do."**_

**-=-(*)-=-**

_"You are worried," The man whispered._

_The woman jumped, startled. The stars above them twinkled brightly as he wrapped his arms around her waist - just to be certain she wouldn't manage to fall off the balcony and onto the shining blades of grass in the garden below._

_"You don't always act like this. What is it?"_

_"Nothing. It is nothing."_

_"You are never worried about nothing. You have many things on your mind. I may not be a perfect reader, but you are never closed."_

_The woman leaned against his shoulder, burying her face in the wool he wore. His presence was comforting. She smiled, allowing herself to close her eyes. "I was not always an open book."_

_"True. Not to me."_

_"I'm never an open book to those who I do not want to be."_

_"Was that a challenge?"_

_They both laughed, turning up their faces to the stars until the woman looked away at the fringes of trees beginning to eat at the prim, kept, grassline. "Stop talking so formal. Work's rubbed off on you."_

_"Hm... has it?" The man clutched her tighter, smiling mischieviously. "But... what was it? a red herring? Red herrings don't work on me."_

_"Drat." The woman laughed and snuggled into his shoulder again. They both stood there in the frozen silence until a child's cry made them jump. "I've got him-"_

_"No." The man stopped her with a stern look. "He's got to learn. Nothing's going to come out of it if you keep on babying him forever."_

_"And he'll never get anything out of it either if you yank his childhood away from him so young."_

_They glared at each other, not with anger, but with rather a peeved continuation of some recurring contradiction. The man finally shook his head and pulled the woman back to the balcony's railing. "Enough. Now, tell me what's going on in that head of yours."_

_"Nothing."_

_He gave her a sharp look._

_"It's..." She looked away guiltily, staring at the treeline again. "It's so... stupid. I feel awful-"_

_The man crossed his arms and leaned back against the railing. "Really? You _finally_ decided to get rid of that horrid carpet? It was _such_ a hard decision to make?"_

_The woman laughed at him, swatting his arm playfully. "Not that, and you know it. The rug was a gift from my mother and it's a very, very nice rug. _That's_ in the closet until I can use it again."_

_"Stowage," he corrected her. "I'm just glad the hideous thing is gone. So what is it then, if it's not that?"_

_She fiddled with her dress pocket, turning it inside out, then pressing it right-side in again as primly as possible, unwilling to answer and perhaps hoping he would give up and head inside their room with an exasperated sigh. The man knew her too well for giving up, however, so he waited, his facial expressions ranging from curious to balatant impatience. To conclude, he scrunched up his nose, scowling, and in the end, she noticed _that_._

_"I- I- feel awful for having to leave again."_

_His jaw dropped. "_That_?! It's _that_?! Honestly, you're gone for what? five seconds? At most-"_

_"But it's not five seconds! It's a year! I feel like I'm living two lives!" The woman choked a laugh as she turned to slump over the balcony with her elbows strangely unlady-like on the marble railing. "And, well, you know that's technically true. I _am_ living a double life. Here I'm a wife, and mother; and then there, I'm flying around with a bunch of hypothetical friends who are as nuts as I am, and know it-"_

_"You aren't mad."_

_"Weird; odd," The woman corrected him with a smile._

_"Whatever. You're one person."_

_"Two lives," she whispered, shrinking down to look at the forest again. "I feel like I'm commiting adultery every time I think of the world before- after, really. There are so many things I just- wish I could share with my friends here; but when I'm there, I miss all of you terribly. I can't live without you."_

_The man shrugged. "Everyone says that when they're in love."_

_"Then I'm irrevocably in love-"_

_"Irrevocably?"_

_The woman winced. "I can't- can't change it? Maybe?"_

_"Good. Go on."_

_She pursed her lips, wondering where she'd left off._

_"-irrevocably in love..."_

_"Oh. Irrevocably in love with you, and I can't change it. See? If you would've let me finish the sentence, you wouldn't have needed to ask for an explanation."_

_"That was a test of your butchered English vocabulary." The man grinned, eyes flashing._

_The woman huffed, crossing her arms. "You aren't busy dealing with the removal of Latin roots."_

_"You ought to _learn_ Latin."_

_"Oh... enough teasing. I'm learning German! Isn't that enough?"_

_The man rolled his eyes and settled back against the railing with a light shrug. "Just finish your thought."_

_And a queasy expression crossed the woman's face. "I... I forgot it."_

_"... And that's you for me."_

_"Oh! Right." A hand drifted to the woman's gently rounded stomach as she turned her back on the gardens to face her husband. "I was going to comment that it doesn't make sense for me to leave when I'm not whole without you."_

_"But it does. Completely. I thought we'd agreed; one year here, one year there."_

_"But it's so _tiring_."_

_"But we grow old together," the man whispered after a silent pause. "And that's what's important, isn't it?"_

_The woman gazed firmly at him for a long time. He reached for her hand and as she took it, tracing the ingrained lines she already knew by heart. They were creased deeply at points, but the skin was thick and smooth, almost feminine in the right light; even with their gentleness, however, there was the firm set of muscle beneath that promised fierce strength. She couldn't imagine any sane person doubting them. "Right," she managed finally. "Right. And nothing else does, does it? We're happy."_

_"And the children. They need you. _I_ need you."_

_The woman blushed and turned into his shoulder to hide it. "Don't, really, L-" She suddenly slumped against him, her mouth forming an O with her eyes wide in horror._

_The man frowned, pulling away to catch her shoulders. "What-?"_

_And she fell instead, crumpling softly to the marble of the balcony floor; exposing the arrow lodged in her back._

**-=-(*)-=-**

**Yes... yes... I'm evil. Don't tell me. I just though it would be a nice change to begin this at the ending. :P**

**Review if you're nice, basically, and if you're mean - heck, review also.**

**Rage: YES, I HAVE GOTTEN OFF MY LAZY BUTT. :) Happy?**

**~L**


	2. Chapter 2

**Run for your lives. You know me and my insinuations for long stories/illiterations/sentences. I've come up with a brilliant story format, but it's going to have heck-of-long-chapters. o.o So... no, this is not going to be worse than Forg., if you were wondering that - maybe about ten? something chapters - but... basically really **_**long**_** chapters...**

**Notices:**

**I feel that everybody ignored my A/N there about the beginning being at the end... etc. That was not a one-shot. You have not read the whole story; you cannot quite say whether it was original or not. Although, at the end of this... I would prefer if you judge it. ;)**

**I use Pulta in this story instead of Laps or Lappy, or something. I find it more like an actual name - which is the way - and the reason - I coined it.**

**-=-(*)-=-**

**Chapter Two**

It was Lap, Laps, Lappy, or Pulta; not Lapulta.

And she was dreaming.

Right. Dreaming.

Because there was no way in the sane world that she could be sitting on a fantastic sorta-endless green lawn when she had been in her friend's lab that was in their apartment that they shared together because they were twinsie - or just as close as sisters, anyway - a moment ago.

Right. Becuase she was a smart, straight-A student that didn't lose her head around anything.

Except Luke Cahill.

But that didn't make any sense; at least, to her it did, but not to anyone else. And that alone didn't make much sense at all unless you understood her deeply and nobody really got that. Maybe.

Pulta blinked, then slowly lifted a hand - it felt like a brick bring lifted underwater for some reason - and let it drop over on her thigh. With a herculean effort, she squeezed it tightly, realizing after a few moments that: Brava! It didn't hurt! She blinked again, sliding it down farther to squish her jello-y calfs as hard as she was able. They were all right as well.

Good.

Deciding to look like a flat-out fool, she shifted her weight to the side, and, stumbling like mad, made her way onto two legs like the human race was supposed to stand - if they were to look like humpbacked cows. Resisting the urge to bite her tongue, Pulta took a deep breath and removed her hands from her knees, steadying herself. Thanking God for not falling over, she straightened up to look like a slightly reasonable human being and glanced around.

Good Lord, she was standing by a castle.

Pulta screamed before she'd realized it, then clapped both hands over her mouth. **Stinky. Socks. Ruled. And. Vampires. Drooled. **The castle was real; like- _realreal_. There was moss growing about on the damp stones and the English flag waving from a terrace. Away from her, people were working by a stable, leading horses around. The ground she was standing on was level to the castle, but it sloped down, leading to what looked to be gardens.

Archers stood on the walls while heavily dressed in chain mail; and from what she could make out, a good show of bronze and gold too. They were proudly sporting the king's banner on their chests.

She was going to die. They were going to catch her and she was going to die. She was stuck - good Lord, in the past? - and she was going to die. They were going to shoot her.

She fled, ignoring the fact that she was heading downhill and the bottom half was barely keeping up with the top.

Wait.

Wasn't this-?

Her legs stopped dead, throwing her violently forward to tumble the rest of the way down the hill and land dizzily in a heap. Gathering her thoughts, she tried to take a deep breath and calm down; no easy task for her hyper-active mind.

So she was in the past next to an English castle with archers on the wall.

Those people probably would want to kill her since she was wearing a loose teeshirt - and to their time, looked like a hippity-hoppity whore.

She didn't want to die.

Pulta attempted to make a rather sick smile. She didn't want to die. That was good. If she didn't want to die, she ought to do everything possible _not_ to die. Which meant getting away from this place as completely fast as her legs could carry her.

Unless...

... she was stuck here.

For good.

Until she died.

From something in Rage's lab.

Great.

Pulta flopped back in the long grass, her customary reaction to partly giving up; her tired hamster decided to fall off its wheel.

Except exhausted hamsters still kept running.

She cursed her brain for its persistance. It was just like story ideas: no matter how slowly they came on, they just kept coming... and coming... and coming...

"You look like a sick horse."

Pulta blinked, raising her head to look at the kid that couldn't have been more than three in front of her. He was dressed in a loose, creamish tunic with brown breeches; oblivious to her raised eyebrows. "What?"

"You look like a sick horse."

"That's impolite," she noted quickly, trying to close the heart that was already opening up for the tender innocence.

"It's true."

She lay back in the grass, patting the ground next to her. The little boy sat down. "It's still impolite. You want to be nice to people. I look horrible - but you don't know what's happened to me." _Like somehow appearing in the past? Awesome, but... wierd? Slightly?_

"That doesn't change the truth. You talk strange, too."

Pulta smiled as the sweet, yet funnily hard British accent crashed on her ears. His speech was so dang _formal_ - and cute. "So do you."

"No, I don't."

"Why not?"

That stumped him. His mouth pursed for a long moment as he thought that through. "Because... because... I'm from here."

She laughed at his seriousness. "And I sound different to you because I'm from somewhere else?"

"Sure." He shrugged.

"You got it right," she managed to point out, still attempting to control the smile.

"You mean..." his eyes narrowed. "That was an actual question?"

Pulta tweaked his nose gently. "Something of the like."

The boy stood up, scowled; crossed his arms and turned away.

"Aw, come on. I didn't mean it like that. Look," she sat up fully and knit her legs into an Indian stature. "What's your name? I didn't catch it if you told me."

The boy's neck twisted back towards her for a second, then it snapped back to its stubborn position. "I didn't throw my name at you."

Pulta grinned. "Alright - I didn't _hear_ it if you told me."

"Winthrop."

She paused. "Winthrop... Cahill?"

"No, no, no. Winthrop _Herald Reginold_ Cahill _the III_. There's a difference. There can be many Winthrop Cahills." He glanced slightly over his shoulder at her.

"Right... Winthrop Herald Reggie Cahill the III."

"Reginold."

"Oh, goodness." Pulta bopped her forehead playfully. "Winthrop Harry Reggie Cahill the III."

Winthrop stomped his foot, eyes playing along with her game, but still indefinitely upset. "_Herald_!"

Pulta propped herself up in the grass, smiling with a delightful pondering index finger on her lips. "Winnie. That's what I'll call you. Winnie. Winnie Rald Rege Cahill the III."

He plopped into the grass with an exasperated puff - defeated. "Good _grief_. Women."

She had to laugh, no matter how peeved his expression was. She reached out an apologetic hand. "I'm sorry, Winnie. I was teasing. Winthrop Herald Reginold Cahill."

"... the III."

"The third," she grinned at him. "Forgiven?"

He shrugged, rolling his eyes. "Fine. I like Winnie. But if you call me Rege, I'll kick you."

"You don't kick ladies."

"You aren't a lady," he pointed out with a rather obvious glance at her clothes.

Pulta tugged on her teeshirt, suddenly feeling immodest even though she wasn't wearing anything that possibly induced her to be improperly clothed. "Wandering eyes and crowing cocks always end with buring locks."

"You changed that!"

"Poetic license," she smiled. "And it's something to keep your head busy. Shouldn't you be in school?"

Winthrop's lip curled up into a sneer. "When it's ten o'clock. I hate him. He reeks of garlic."

"Considering how well you talk, I couldn't possibly see you needing a tutor so early."

The boy crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm almost three. I can study."

"But for how long?"

Winthrop rolled his eyes. "Five hours. Don't you know _anything_?"

"Don't _you_ play?" Pulta asked.

"Every afternoon. I asked Papa to take me out this morning since Mary's ill."

"Papa..." she frowned. "L-"

"Luke." A voice finished, making her head jerk upward. "Yes, Luke Cahill - if you're going to ask."

He was the same as she'd imagined; every inch him. His eyes were precisely the right shade of brown - the exact shape. His hair was slightly mussed, as if he'd run his hand through it a few times too many. The color of the tunic - he liked earth tones - and the boots; straight black with the two buckles she had conjured with her mind.

God, even the boots...

She suddenly found herself smiling into his scowling face. "... hello?"

"Greetings are overrated."

"Not to me they aren't." Pulta found her legs were working better as she slipped up to her feet and stuck out her right hand. She cocked her head, meeting his rancourous gaze with a friendly aura. "Hello."

"If you're trying to get me to shake your hand, it's not working. And two: I don't appreciate you affiliating yourself with my son."

"We're just friends," Pulta glanced down at Winthrop and dropped him a wink. "Aren't we Winnie?"

"You act as if you were the queen."

"Well..." Pulta ransacked the back of her brain for all the immediate facts she had on Henry the Eighth. "... I could be, couldn't I? Maybe he already proposed and you don't know it."

His lip curled up. "Your speech is appalling."

"Just like your brogue?" She found herself raising her head, eyes snapping. "No offense, but from where I'm from, it doesn't matter what they speak like - so long as they can talk with grammar."

He didn't even bother to answer that. "GUARDS!"

Perhaps he expected her to fall on her knees, begging for mercy. Pulta gritted her teeth. "What are you going to do? Kill me?"

"No, I'm going to have them rip you naked and beat you dead."

Her mouth dropped - barely recovered in time to keep him from seeing it. "Are you sure that's humane?"

"Humanity?" He raised an eyebrow at her; the first time he'd shown any interest. "Forget it. The way you're dressed, it shouldn't bother you much."

She curled up her own lips. "Just because I'm dressed like this, you automatically assume that I'm some- some _whore_ that just came from a bar so you're going to rip me naked and beat me to dead? You people are _civilized_? _Where_ is _any_ kind of justice in this?"

Luke took one stride forward - he had amazingly long legs, she noticed - and grabbed the front of her teeshirt. Their faces were two inches apart; his nose almost brushing hers. She stared into his eyes, seeing the ferocity there, but not feeling any of it. For all his blundering, she could still feel he wasn't dangerous - just like she'd imagined. The scars covered the hurt, and the hurt covered the pain, and the pain covered the heart. And the heart? She willed a smile to begin on her lips. "Kill me," she whispered.

The eyes glittered as he mouthed the words. "That's just what I was going to do."

She was flung down hard on the ground, forcing all the breath to snap out of her. Guards' swords suddenly pointed down from above her in a tight ring.

Great. So she _was_ going to die because of a stupid teeshirt...

At least she'd crossed off two things from her 100-things-to-do-before-you-kick-the-bucket list: fight with a bear, and see Luke Cahill.

"Hey- wait! No!"

Even the guards blinked as Winthrop flung himself forward and promptly sat on her stomach. Pulta felt herself lose a breath with his weight - he was mightily hefty for a three-year-old - but allowed him.

"Papa..."

She could imagine Luke's eyes snapping with his word that wasn't a question, but a demand. "What."

"Please? We- we are friends. Kind of."

"Winthrop, go inside."

"Pl-_ease_?" Winthrop bounced up and down a little to signify his eagerness, making Pulta try and restrain the little half-gasps she produced; her face turned a blochy red. "She's ever so much funnier than Monsieur Doub_`ere_ and she's nicer too. _Please_, Papa?"

"No," Luke snapped flatly. He nodded sharply at Winthrop to come away.

The guards sharpened their swords, leaning in closer with hunger in their eyes.

Pulta swallowed.

Winthrop swallowed. "If- if you let her, I'll bet she can teach me more in a week than Monsieur has ever taught me. And if not... then... then she can die. But not before."

She blinked, unused to three-year-olds throwing 'die' and 'morbidity' around as if it was a casual, everyday occurence.

Luke's eyes met with his son's for a brief, scrutinizing moment, then riveted on hers. "Well? Do you agree to that?"

"I think that's fair; so long as I can do whatever I want."

"Please, Papa?"

Luke paused, then flicked a hand at the guards; they lowered their swords. "Come, Winthrop. Benedict?"

"Milord?"

She couldn't help noticing how the guard's eyes held an almost startled fear in them; well, perhaps not fear - respect at least. "Take... The Girl to her room and ask Mary to teach her how to dress decently. She starts duties with Winthrop tomorrow."

"Yes, milord."

The other guards turned away and Benedict stared warily down at her, not even offering a hand to help her up. She decided she didn't want his help, and wasn't going to sit their begging for it as she popped to her feet and brushed herself off.

And then she had to wonder just _how_ she'd gotten involved in this...


	3. Chapter 3

**Now I have noted that RageRunsStill must have a bit of credit for the title of this story. ;D**

**And another thing: I swore an oath to myself that I wouldn't tell anyone about the story. I want all of you to die in the juices of your anticipation. Don't worry; I ought to be quick. I don't have my jumpdrive; this is on my computer, so it oughtn't be stolen completely. :)**

**-=-(*)-=-**

**Chapter Three**

_Not her._

_Not now._

_Not like this._

_The man dropped to his knees, trembling with anger as his fingers brushed over the arrow's exposed shaft. He felt his lungs quiver and he leaned closer, ears begging to hear that sound of breath again._

_There was nothing._

_Another arrow whizzed over the balcony, clanging unsensitively into the stone behind him. The man shuddered and lay out on the ground, wrapping a protective arm over the still figure. Glancing frantically at the door, he braced himself against the small marble column and pushed away to worm both of them over the cold stone. She drooped, but the wound was still pumping blood as revealed in the red on his tunic. There was hope._

_To his disgust as he managed his way over the floor, he could fully understand the predicament they were in. This had been predicted; it was nobody's fault but their own. God, had he been so stupid as to allow her full access outside?_

_Well, what was the point of not giving her full access?_

_His breath shuddered in the cool air as another arrow twanged directly overhead and clattered beside him. With a momentary look, he gauged that the tips weren't as wide as they were long; it would be relatively easy to get it out - so long as it hadn't gone too far in._

_He gasped, gritting his teeth at the heavy weight that seemed to increase with every moment. They were watching him, obviously, as an arrow was aimed directly at the door - shot rather up, than across so it would land on them. It missed, to his chagrin, shattering a China closet inside the room that had been specially imported from Persia for the last advisor. He'd always hated it, and he had to admit a smile of just _how _it had gone._

_The child kicked._

_She shuddered beneath him, gasping slightly. The man twisted her upright as much as he was able, trying to give her all the air she needed without causing any unnecessary pain from the arrow. His thoughts flew._

_He would be more help getting help, than helping here with no help at all._

_Pausing for a quick second, he let her down gently on her side, then popped up and slammed the balcony door closed just in time. Another arrow whizzed into it and he alloted time to breathe a grateful breath. Stooping down to pick the woman up, he placed her safely on the nearest couch and then hurried over to the entraceway where all the items in the room seemed to collect eventually._

_He cursed his habits as he kicked galoshes and heavy coats out of the way to gain access to the closet. Throwing open the door, he fumbled around, attempting to find the large, box-like machine that was _so_ hard to miss. She did it so much more than he did..._

_But there it was. He could feel the cheap iron metal under his fingers. Horrible the way things were made in China then. Or was it now? He could never be quite sure of the proper answer._

_Stepping into it, he cursed as a jacket caught on his sleeve. He dragged it along with him, not bothering to fix it and the button was quickly pushed. "_Rage!_"_

_Someone was singing in the kitchen with an atrociously off-tune voice. She couldn't hear him. "Rage!"_

_The singing stopped._

_"RAGE!"_

_She stepped out of the ajoining room, peering at him with unhurried curiosity. "Oh, you? Why you?"_

_"Just come with me."_

_She raised a perfectly arched eyebrow._

_He remembered Katherine having that same look of utter disbelief and amusement. For heaven's sake, that was _his_ look. "Dammit, come with me. There isn't time."_

_"There's all the time in the world for pasta to cook, and boys to look. Look," she stated pointedly, shaking the sauce-covered spoon at him. "Not touch. And you, sir, are-"_

_"I don't care what I am!" He ground his teeth together, seething and half-thinking oaths that would've turned her face a red so _wonderfully_ pleasant to behold. "If you had half the courtesy to attend to your sister, who at this moment is-"_

_The woman blanched, all color draining from her face. "If you'd told me that first, stuttering imbecile-"_

_"GET YOUR BAG."_

_She scurried off; not because of him, he knew, but out of fear for her sister. She understood the situation; she had been there that day._

_"Good Lord," she muttered softly as she hopped past him on one foot with a bag looped over one shoulder. Her sneaker was not complying. "Couldn't you have told me that before I started thinking you were one of the most sick-minded, as well as the most criminally-"_

_The man grabbed her hand and practically shoved her head-first into the box and followed quickly himself, forgetting, momentarily, that the recipient machine was stuck in a closet full of jackets. They tumbled over each other, the woman swatting him back with quick, assulting oaths. Stumbling free, he moved around her and hurried to the back of the couch._

_The figure was so pale for a moment he feared the worst. Her belly heaved, courtesy of the child that was thrashing inside her. There was no air - and where there wasn't air, there wasn't life. His breath caught and he slid a hand down, gently trying to sooth the intrepid child. "Rage..."_

_The woman's breath caught as she yanked things frantically out of her bag. "God, Luke. What happened?"_

_His mentality snapped. "And you ask that when a _damn arrow_ is _sticking out of her back_?"_

_"Who shot her?" She whirled on him. "I can see there's an arrow, I'm not blind!"_

_"I don't know." He choked, finally allowing the itching thought to boil to the surface. "I- I don't know. If I did... God... But only _him_-"_

_She bit her lip. "Sorry..."_

_"Do what you came here for," he shot at her._

_She complied, tears threatening in the corners of her eyes as she gently wrapped the shaft of the arrow with a cloth against her sister's back and then began to pull._

_The man turned away, too pained by the sight to allow himself to stand there and watch. He paced, resorting to the age-old classic. Wondering slightly if he ought to go check on Winnie, he stopped himself, shook his head and continued. He'd be all right. It wouldn't do to bother him unnecessarily._

_A bloodied arrow was thrown at his feet._

_Rushing over, he leaned against the backing of the couch while gripping it so tightly in both hands he could feel the blood draining out of them. "Rage..."_

_"She isn't breathing. I think-" the sister paused. "I think the corset saved her from the brunt of it, but it went deep, and threw her into shock; she isn't breathing."_

_He swallowed, choking on his own spit._

_She bent over her sister, hair that seemed to match so precisely blocking his view of the attempts to revive her. He glanced at the child; the thumps had slowed, gradually decreasing to a pathetic kick every other moment. He forced the tears away, slamming down hope in their place and kicking the fear to the back of his heart._

_The sister began to cry. He could see the tears dripping down her cheeks and splattering on the body. She knew as well. Life was dying in front of their eyes as they couldn't save her._

_He never knew what hatred was until he felt the fury consume him. He could feel the fire eating him inside as it took over one thing, than another; then his mind. No, not fury, vengeance. Because she was worth anything. Even dying. And if she was dead, did dying even matter? Would dying be a _good_ thing?_

_"No!" He was jerked out of his mind at her sister's voice - furious, angry - like his. "No! No! No, no, no, no!" She slammed her fists down on the still figure, tears still raining fast. "No! I didn't allow you to come all this way to die! You aren't dying! I don't give you permission to die! You CAN'T!" She threw all her weight on the figure's chest._

_The man caught her arms, but she yanked away, throwing herself forward again._

_"DAMMIT. You can't DIE! LIVE!" She screamed at the immobile, pale body that didn't move as she slammed on the heart. "LIVE! You've got WINNIE! And the BABY! And ME! And LU-"_

_It was like a balloon being released the opposite way. The cadaver gave a gasp, not opening her eyes, but alive. The child kicked with renewed strength._

_The sister fell to her knees, burying her head in the bloodied silk dress so the entire castle wouldn't hear her sobs of relief._

_The man found himself just standing there, twiddling out like an odd thumb. He knew it was a stupid thing to think that he'd known the whole time, since he knew for sure he hadn't. But... if he couldn't celebrate, didn't that mean he wasn't excited? No, he _was_ excited. Just... obliviously._

_Right. Excited obliviously._

_A thin smile found its onto his lips and he closed his eyes, trying to think of what they could possibly replace the old China cabinet with._

_"Luke."_

_She met his eyes when he opened them. And then there was the relief - the joy. He stumbled forward, managing to wrap his arms around the places her sister hadn't taken up. "I- I thought-"_

_"Is the baby all right?"_

_The man curled against her, half laughing, half giving into worried sobs. "Shouldn't it be _me _asking that?"_

_"Luke..."_

_He kissed her cheek gently. "What?"_

_She managed to weasel a hand out from beneath her sister's grasp and use it to brush a lock of hair away from his forehead. "Don't flatter me; please. I thought- I thought for a while there... I wasn't going to make it; or the baby. I tried, but I couldn't-"_

_He kissed her. "Don't talk that way. You'll be fine."_

_"That's you for me." Her eyes flashed gently with a sarcastic spark. "Always talking too much. And for heaven's sake, what happened to the cabinet?"_


	4. Chapter 4

**I appreciate everyone's enthusiasm about this. It's very encouraging to me, and I want to thank you. =)**

**I have also discovered that the chapters are not going to be as long as I thought; splitting them is going to be an interesting occupation of my time, but the length will be normal. :) Ex...cept for perhaps one. But that's beside the point. o.o**

**-=-(*)-=-**

**Chapter Four**

Pulta's eyes followed Winthrop's eager movements as he hurried around the room - pointing things out to her and dropping little hints on things for her to pick up and look over. Yet all she could seem to focus on was the enormous pile of books on the floor by the desk. They were the size of the ones she had, had - and/or _had_ - when she was going to Biology class, or bigger. They were no size for a elementary student, and no way for a _three-year-old_ to do anything.

A paper on the desk caught her eye and she meandered over, ignoring Winthrop's wild begging to go and see his snake-skin collection in the top drawer of his bureau. It was a paper of the ten times table, obviously written in Winthrop's rather squiggly handwriting. The tens? She struggled to remember whether she learned that in fourth, or fifth grade. At _three_? Granted, he was almost four, but four-year-olds were supposed to be suffing blocks into equally-shaped holes, not discussing the proper position of pronouns in a conjugated Latin sentence.

Pulta bit her lip and tried to forget that he was _Luke's_ son, brushing down her emerald green skirt and the full-length apron as she turned around and examined the dead garter snake being thrust into her face. Yet she could see Winthrop's flurry of excitement. No wonder he'd practically fallen over at the realization they would 'learn outdoors' that day; nobody had ever bothered with him enough to care about _his_ wants, or _his_ needs. Who truly wanted to be cooped up in a room for an entire day; for an entire life? It was what he'd been stuck with though, ever since he'd been born.

Not quite a load of sorrow, but a passel of empathy leveled on her mind. She patted the bed, motioning for Winthrop to sit with her. He did - grinning. "Do you know your tens?" she whispered quietly.

Winthrop's smile faded with his answer. "Sort- sort of... kinda."

"Have you learned anything else above that?"

He fidgeted and didn't answer.

Pulta wrapped her arms around him, allowing herself the privilege to place a gentle kiss on his forehead. "I just want to know, Winnie. It's not a bad thing if you haven't - at all."

"No... not really. Monsieur was trying to get me to learn the twelves and memorize the elevens after nine, but it's so..." he strugged for the word. "So... _boring_..."

She pulled him onto her lap. "Do you think you'd like them if I tried to make them interesting?"

He tightened. "No."

"I understand." Pulta picked him up and placed him back gently on the floor as she stood. "They're awful, aren't they; and the sevens and sixes are the worst."

He nodded in agreement.

She peeled down the quilt on the bed and patted it lightly for him to get in. He did, yawning. "What about your nines? Were they easier?"

"I liked the twos..." He yawned once more and pulled the covers slowly up over his head where there was a sigh and a comfortable settling into the bed.

Pulta held her breath so she wouldn't laugh, then leaned over and blew out the light. There was a whispered 'good night', and then a quiet creak of the door as she shut it.

Now, for a conversation.

Luke's door was four away from Winnie's after a left. She stopped just outside the door, taking a deep breath and brushing down her skirt again before opening it without knocking.

There was a short entranceway when she walked in where a pile of boots were happily sitting. The room itself was long, rather than wide; it had a balcony with a wooden door leading out to it and a window just above his desk where he was sitting. Glancing quickly to the right after she was out of the entranceway, she saw a bit of a sitting room with a few couches. They were so pristine that the room seemed practically a foreign place where he never went. A bedroom was probably the door farther on there by the wall.

His pen stopped scratching when she reached about the middle of the room and she paused to wait. Luke firmly set it down and then leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms and looking at a shadow next to the balcony door rather than her. "Did your mother teach you not to knock as well as not to dress?"

"I'm not in the wall," she corrected frugally, remembering something her mother _had_ taught her. "Talk to me, please. What was that?"

She could feel his snapping eyes although he didn't turn around. "You are rude."

"You're cruel," she barked. "Stuffing multiplication tables down Winnie's throat at three? What father does that?"

A fist slammed down on the table and he stood up, eyes now blazing. "My son's name is Winthrop, and you will _not_ tell me how to deal with him!"

"The hell I won't," Pulta hissed. "He needs love; love nobody's giving him. He's starving for it; he'll do anything. And you give him people who care absolutely nothing about him to suffice-?"

"I give him what he needs to succeed. Everything he has, he needs."

"No," Pulta took a step forward. "No. Everything he has, except you; except-"

"Shut up." Luke turned around and headed into the sitting room. "I have work to do."

"Shut up on what you need to hear?" She followed him, detouring around the couch in the center of the room to contront him in his escape route. "No. You _need_ to listen to me. He needs you _now_. And if you don't do it now, he will never, _ever_ see you in the light you ought to be seen as."

"That time is past."

"The hell it isn't." Pulta grabbed his tunic and spun him around, causing his eyes to flash dangerously. "Now get up there, and tuck him in for bed."

"That," he snarled. "Is your job, isn't it?"

"No, it's not. He doesn't have a mother, and you're going to ditch him?"

Luke took a deep breath, so obviously trying to keep his temper in when his face was practically turning into a tomato. She tried hard not to think of how dashing he looked that way.

"Get out."

"Not until you see reason. And that doesn't look like it's happening anytime soon."

Luke clenched his teeth. "You are dismissed."

"I dismiss myself. Perhaps you missed that."

"What's your name?"

She found herself raising an eyebrow. "Pulta- Pulta Ragwrine."

"Well, _Pulta Ragwrine_," he hissed. "Get out. Now. And don't let me _ever_ see you in my room again. Is that clear?"

She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Hm... no?"

"OUT!" Luke roared.

Pulta stayed there for a long moment, eyeing him. It was almost ridiculous, she judged, that she was here with her usual red-hot temper as cool as a cucumber while he was steaming up over nothing. Yet it hurt - his anmosity towards her - and it didn't seem quite fair. But... all was well. Perhaps.

"Tomorrow night, then."

"_Never_."

She shrugged helplessly, turning around without a curtsey like she knew she was supposed to do and glanced at her shoulder to deliver a parting blow. "He needs you."


	5. Chapter 5

**This chapter was short, so I figured I'd put it up. :)**

**-=-(*)-=-**

**Chapter Five**

_"You cannot."_

_"Of course I can. The fact that I 'can' is irrelevant. It's the thing that I _should_-"_

_"Luke," she caught his arm, pleading now. "It's nothing. You'll only entrice him. It's useless. _Please_."_

_The man continued pacing anyway. "And watch him steal you, Winnie, and Peter away? Never."_

_"He can't hurt us. We're in a castle, Luke. We're on the second floor."_

_He flinched. "And you say that when you're following me around with your entire midsection bandaged up? He shot you. I'm not letting that go; whatever the cost. Who's it going to be next? Winnie?"_

_"You've already cooped us up here for a month, Luke. You can't do much more."_

_"I can fire all the staff until the cooks will be buttoning shoes."_

_"Luke..."_

_The man whirled around on one heel, almost bumping into the woman as he continued on his rampaging way. "I can drag you halfway across Europe till we can never be found. I can do that."_

_"Luke, the chair."_

_He caught himself in time and walked around it. "Well?"_

_"You know perfectly well that nothing will happen. Harry's going to be born precisely on the due date-"_

_The man slowed. "Kristin."_

_"It's a boy, and you know it. We've had this argument plenty of times." She sat on the armrest of the couch, a hand resting lightly on her belly. "I was right the first time, and I will be again."_

_"It will be a girl."_

_"Boy."_

_He resisted the urge to kiss her until she submitted to his convictions. "You don't know it's not a girl. Perhaps she kicks harder than usual."_

_"Maybe I'm right both ways," she smiled slyly. "Maybe you're going to stay here with us through my sixth month. Maybe it will be another boy."_

_"Maybe is not for certain."_

_The woman rolled her eyes. "You talk too much," she whispered. Pausing for a moment, she leaned against the back of the couch. "Stay," she murmured quietly. "Stay with us."_

_"I can't."_

_"Of course you can. You should." He was lured closer until she could sit up and wrap her arms shrewdly around his neck._

_"Your safety has no price."_

_"It does to me." She leaned slightly back while pulling him forward and making their foreheads touch gently. "You. And you have no price."_

_"Looks like we're both in the same predicament." He pulled away and started to pace again._

_She watched him pace for three floor-length until he 'seemed' to tire. "Don't do this, Luke. Peter's only turned one this past month. We all need you here; you can't go gallavanting about the countryside looking for a lord who will hide his face the moment he hears you've gone-"_

_They both suddenly became quiet as rushed footsteps made their presence known in the hall. The man stopped by the couch, foreboding as ever._

_There was the sound of the door bursting inward and a panting guard with a terrified look on his face stumbled out from the entraceway. "Mi-milord. The lad- Winthrop. He was in the garden. We can't find him."_

_The woman let out a strangled sob._

_The man grabbed his jacket lying across the chair next to his desk. "Saddle my horse."_

_Bowing, the guard made a hasty exit. "Milord."_

_"Luke-" she caught his arm before he could make good his escape._

_"What? Don't let it be some pathetic thing about riding in the rain, or staying warm."_

_The woman paused, clutching his hand tightly. "Be- be careful," she whispered._

_He nodded quickly, pecked her cheek with an abrubt kiss and hurried out into the hall where his steps seemed to settle into a hurried rhythm. It was then he realized that she had turned away after he had kissed her, and although he'd never seen her cry, it didn't mean she couldn't._


	6. Chapter 6

**I'm sorry for updating so frequently; it's probably a terrible bore, and you all hate me by this time. Unfortunately, I'd prefer to get this whole thing up before /certainpeople/ get mad at me for writing so much and chop this also. o.o**

**This chapter is dedicated to Pine, who has been reallyreally awesome throughout this whole thing. :)**

**-=-(*)-=-**

**Chapter Six**

"If Monsieur farted once a day, every day for nine weeks, how many times did he fart?"

Winthrop grinned. "What if he farted twice?"

Pulta flipped over onto her stomach from where she'd been on her back. "Well? What if? Fourteen times nine, or eighteen times seven; or the answer times two."

He pondered that. "One twenty-six?"

"Right."

Giggling, Winthrop rolled over as well and dipped a hand into the stream running slightly beneath him to chase a couple tadpoles around. "You're much funner than Monsieur, you know that, right?"

"Much more fun," Pulta corrected him gently.

"Why?"

"Funner isn't a word. It never has been, and never will be."

"Why?"

She had to shrug. "The English language is a mystery. Now, teach me Latin."

He groaned. "Wh-_y?_"

"Because it's important; this is my lesson as well as yours. I've never learned Latin."

"Never?" The fact that she barely knew what 'E pluribus unum' meant never ceased to amaze him.

"Never. But now I'm going to learn it, aren't I?"

"Of course." He flew into full teacher-mode; whatever he'd learned from his books the day before actually managing to stick in his grey matter. "Now, in Latin..."

**-=-(*)-=-**

"Thank you."

Pulta glanced up from Winthrop's breeches she was folding to look at the form in the back of the room that looked slightly like a blob with a head. "What?"

"Thank you."

She snorted, trying to resist the nervousness coming from an unknown figure talking to her. "Oh, you're welcome; for what?"

"A common courtesy." The blob merged slightly out of the shadows to reveal Luke's face. "It's been a week. You can leave."

"Oh..." She felt her gaze flicker to Winthrop snoring away under his heavy quilt. She resisted the urge to whine _'do I have to'_ just like he always did.

"Aren't you going to ask?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Ask what? Ask, ask what?"

His eyes snapped momentarily, then cooled. "If you leave with your life."

"Oh, right. That. Well, are you going to let me leave here without being stripped naked and being beaten to death inhumanely?"

A thin smile crept onto his face. "I believe that was rhetorical, was it not?"

"Ri-_ight_... Just so long as I'm not dead." She turned her back on him and began to tuck Winthrop's breeches into his top bureau drawer with the dried snake skins. She flinched as she brushed against a dried rattler's tail and Luke, inevitably, caught it.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Plenty nothings make a lot of nothing that usually equals something."

"Shut up, you'll wake him if you don't keep your tone down." She grabbed Winthrop's shirts and artfully stuffed them into the lower drawer.

"You do not tell the king's advisor to 'shut up'."

"I do."

She could feel his eyes snap. "Come outside for a moment."

"No."

"And _just why not, _Miss Ragwrine?"

"Because I haven't put the stockings away."

There was a half exasperated, half furious huff, and then he exited the room.

She delayed as long as she thought worthy although she could clearly hear his footsteps in the hallway outside as he paced. Winthrop hadn't stirred throughout the conversation, but as she placed the last of the stockings away, she suddenly felt as though an eye were watching her.

She spun around, attempting to keep her voice low. "_Winthrop Cahill_!"

The eye blinked, then two eyes appeared and looked suavely guilty. "I don't go to sleep _immediately_ after I get in bed, you know..."

Rolling her eyes, Pulta reached over to tuck the quilt gently around him. "Go to sleep now, Winnie."

"But... what about Papa-"

"Nothing's going to happen, Winnie. I'll be perfectly fine. Trust me."

But his eyes denied her comforts and refracted her hope. "Will you ask him to stay here?"

"Perhaps," she grabbed the empty clothes basket, balancing it on her hip. "If I get the chance."

"Will you leave?"

She paused at the door, lowing her voice as Luke's footsteps paused. "I... I don't know, Winnie. Go to sleep."

He sighed worriedly before rolling over and covering his head with blankets again. There was a low mumble from under the quilt: "Goodnight, Pulta."

"Good night, Winnie." She slipped outside, suddenly discovering that he'd blocked her way out so she could barely close the door behind them.

"I have the power to kill you, and you have the unabated audacity to deny me?"

She pulled her neck back so he wouldn't be directly in her face. "Are you blind?"

He had temper issues. He didn't answer.

"Obviously, I care about your son enough that it doesn't matter how much you talk."

"_I don't 'talk'_."

She raised an eyebrow. "Really? You're talking right now."

"_I DON'T_-"

She slapped a hand on his mouth. "You like everyone to know your personal business?"

He slapped her.

She slapped him back, struggling to hide her grin from the pure pleasure of it.

"_Get out,_" he whispered, finally. "And _don't come back_."

"Does that mean I get to live?"

"_GET OUT BEFORE I HAVE THE GUARDS THROW YOU OUT!_"

"Pushy." She shrugged lightly. "Well, if you insist..." Pulta turned around to go, and then suddenly discovered that the castle and all its surroundings had disappeared, leaving her in a comfy, usual 2018 apartment with a familiar, grinning face staring back at her.


	7. Chapter 7

**aDDFDrgd;fja3789rDGHAWOMshdf**

**TAIL/TALE! Thank you, Turq. :D Very much, and for that, this next chapter is dedicated to you. ;D**

**I have discovered that this story will be basically 16-17 chapters long. Not bad, really... I'm at the point of Chpt. 15 right now, so hopefully, quick updates will continue to happen.**

**And... there is a reason - not one with a twist into the storyline, unfortunately - why I named him Raoul... ;D Guess.**

**-=-(*)-=-**

**Chapter Seven**

_The woman slipped unnoticed through the stables while looking around to find a single person. She felt nearly nude walking around in her husband's tunic and breeches instead of a dress, or something of the like; but they were much looser and offered his scent - a mix that strangely seemed to consist of mainly vanilla and horse, oddly - and it comforted her. So far nobody had recognized her face, but she'd gotten rather odd looks - although the awkward child inside her made her wonder if they were blind._

_She caught sight of her target right past the Clydesdales. He recognized her immediately, even with the disguise, and turned to run. Clenching her fists, she broke into a jog while following him, then stopped at the effort it took to continue. An idea hit her. "Somebody! Stop that man! I have warrant for his arrest!"_

_Instantly, five other people that had come from who-knew-where in the stable were at his heels. They leapt on top of him, pinning him face-down into the straw-littered floor until she was able to catch up. "Thank you," she brushed them away. "And you, come with me."_

_His eyes flitted everywhere except at her, but he followed into the small tack room where he maintained a defensive position in the back of the room behind an old table used for oiling leather. "You shouldn't be out now, milady... If someone catches you..."_

_"If," the woman leaned on the table, both palms down. "What happened, Raoul? I know he didn't die."_

_It almost looked like the man choked. "Milady, I oughtn't upset you..."_

_"Tell me. You were there that night; what happened?"_

_"He drowned." The man met her gaze - almost fearfully, she though. Unlike him. "He said the bridge was too far upriver to cross; we tried to stop him, but he went in, and that was the last we saw of him."_

_"Did you look for the body?"_

_The man's adam's apple bobbed up and down. "There was no way he could've survived that, milady."_

_A slight smile twitched onto the woman's face. "Funny; because I asked Gerald the same thing, and he said you went downstream and found the horse's body, but not his."_

_It seemed like the man's face flushed a slight shade of pink before it drained of all color._

_"Tell me," the woman leaned forward with a delicate, worried look on her face. "We've known each other since I've come here, Raoul. What happened that night? You were there; you saw it happen."_

_"Mi-milady..." he hesitated. "I can't. Really. He- he said if we told... we would be on a threat of death. I have a family at home. If I'm not there to care for them..."_

_"Who told you that?"_

_"No one."_

_The woman hesitated, then slowly reached into her pocket and pulled out two gold coins. They shimmered in the dim light, announcing their glittering value. "I don't want to bribe you; I don't believe in it, but you have a family." She paused. "I have a family, too. And my family is in danger. Raoul, please..."_

_"So is mine, milady."_

_Her fingers played lightly on the two coins as she stared at the table until she left them there. "It's a gift," she whispered. "I'll find him then... Thank you, Raoul."_

_The man watched as she turned around to leave. "Milady, wait!"_

_She turned._

_"It..." he hesitated. "It was at the North Bank."_

_The woman leaned forward, looking so eager he couldn't bear to stop._

_"It was pitch black; someone - or something - stomped out the fire and we discovered we were surrounded. He..."_

_"Please-" the woman was biting her lip._

_"... fought, but they knocked him unconscious, I think. One of the men stepped forward and made us take an oath that if we ever said what we saw, they would kill us. I don't think anyone said anything; they were fearful swordsmen - all of them. It would be instant death."_

_The woman was back on the table, leaning forward anxiously. "Where did they take him?"_

_The man shrugged._

_The woman managed a thin smile. "Thank you; thank you, Raoul. Don't breath a word of what you said to me to anyone; go home - right now. Don't come until both of us have gotten back again."_

_"But, milady, my wages..."_

_"Don't worry," the woman's smile grew a little. "I'll have Mary take them to you - no matter how long you're gone. And if she forgets, ask for everything when we get back."_

_The man nodded uncertainly as she hurried to the door to leave. "They... they took the East road, milady - to cross the bridge, I imagine. From there you'll have to ask."_

_The woman shot him a grateful look, then slipped out of the room. Once outside the stable, far from the range of snooping eyes and ears, she pulled a fearsome looking ten-shooter pistol from her pocket and loaded it with a round of bullets._

_Compliments to being twinsies with an Ekat._


	8. Chapter 8

**Okay... I'm sorry, Rage... I make you sound all mean and uncaring... :'( Not that bad, but come on... it's a fanfic... All chars usually end up OOC by the end, right? o.O Whether you like it or not, though, this chapter is dedicated to you.**

**And we are twinsies; biological or not. ;D Don't forget that.**

**To everyone else: on the second part, this is where it gets tricky. I sorta explain myself, but it might get confusing. Hang in there. I can explain in the next chapter's A/N if you'd like me to.**

**All shall be explained in this chapter on the time... ;D Well, almost all. XD**

**Oh... mysteries, mysteries, mysteries. Who are the man and the woman? ... and you thought I would **_**tell**_** you? Hahahahaha... It is **_**meant**_** to be confusing. If I tell you, then it's not a mystery, is it? 8D**

**-=-(*)-=-**

**Chapter Eight**

"Ha!"

Pulta blinked as Rage punched the air.

"Ha! It WORKED. Now, you've got to tell me everything. _EVERYTHING_. Don't just say: 'good' and all the stuff like you usually do. How did it work? Did you feel anything? How long were you there? Were there time differences? Did it matter? What did you do? How far back did you go? Did you go back? Did you go forwa-"

"Stop." Pulta held up her hands, and something in her demeanor caused Rage to clam up for a long moment. "Stop. You sent me back in time - _without my permission_, mind you - so you could see how your time machine worked. And... if I turned inside out, and then exploded, you _wouldn't care_?"

Rage looked hurt. "You're my twinsie. Of course I'd care."

"Self-appointed twinsies," Pulta reminded her with a sharp look as she stepped out of the metal box and onto the tile; it hurt her feet, to her surprise, after being used to the wood and grass. "Not biological. And you only care what happened."

Rage shrugged, turning aside momentarily to turn down a benson burner that was coming close to over-boiling a can of soup still in the tin. "Well, it has to be noted for the public use. And where did you go? It's designed to take you back to the time you think of; no buttons."

"So... I could've been thinking about dinosaurs at the moment, and then gotten eaten by a Triceratops and all you think about is the greater good of the public?"

"Triceratops is a herbivore."

"So what? A T-rex, then-"

"Technically, the full name of a T-rex is a Tyrannosaurus rex. It's pronounced: Ti-ranne-"

"Rage," Pulta took a deep breath, holding out her hands as if it would help to steady herself. "Listen-"

"Hey, I just noticed what you're wearing. What _is_ that? It looks almost real. Can I touch it?"

"No."

"Why not? Are you-? No... You're not wearing custom-made leather slippers from the English-maker John Trennen, are you? SICK! I am SO calling up Harvistford Institute-"

"RAGE!"

The girl looked up after her excessive scrutiny of her 'sister's' shoes. She grabbed the tin can off the benson burner using a hand-molded, foam-thingy Pulta admired, but had no wish to be thinking of at the moment. "What? Is that bothering you? Wh-? OW!" The can dropped to the table. "OW! OW! OW-! MY FIGGN TOUNG! HICE! HICE! HICE!"

She bolted out of the room into the open, adjoining kitchen; Pulta watching her with a raised eyebrow as she dug in the freezer and removed an ice pack which she plopped gratefully onto the tip of her tongue.

"Well, that ought to teach you to not pay attention, but considering that you've ignored the previous amount of lessons that burner's taught you, I have to wonder..."

Rage shot her a look that could've killed since she couldn't exactly say anything with the ice pack lathered on her tongue.

"If you'd like an answer since that pack's keeping you from asking more: Yes, I went back. I went to 1511, approximately. And not for a half-a-second as it seems you think I did. I was there for a _week_. Apparently it's multiplied; being in the past time lengths. Whatnot, etc.."

The burned tongue bulged out in awe along with the similar eyes. It was an amusing sight - increased at the fact Rage found out the ice pack had frozen to her taste buds.

"On the other hand, considering you seem to have no concern for my thoughts, I won't tell you where I got the dress - or the shoes; or the petticoat, or the bodice, or the corset. Or even the stockings, if you're really willing to go that far; I don't even know where Mary got them. But I know one thing, and that's the point that boys now, are never - no, never _ever_ going to be better than boys then. I will date a book before I date a guy now. No, check that," Pulta pointed a finger at herself. "I will date my _own_ book before I date a guy now. They're sick, and stupid; and God: teach them how to buy pants of the right size."

The ice pack dangled happily from Rage's tongue connected in a painful way to her open mouth.

"Now, if you'll excuse me-"

That caught her attention. Rage grabbed her arm before she could stalk off to her room. "Hewy! Wate! Wyo yu meeta?"

"Rage..."

"Na! Wyo yu meeta?"

"I don't quite know, and I don't quite-"

Rage blew on the package to heat the molecues and free her tongue. And blew... and blew...

Pulta raised an eyebrow. "You're going to hack up a lung there..."

"HA!" Rage triumphantly exclaimed as the package dropped off... on her foot. She hopped around clutching it.

Pulta turned to go. Which typically attracted Rage's attention like a fly to light.

"Hey! Who'd you meet? Come on, you must've meet someone. Like who?"

Pulta paused on the first step. "Really want to know?"

Rage looked like she would've gotten on her knees and played 'Polly want a cracker' all day for the 'priceless' words of information.

"Winthrop."

"Who?" The expression instantly changed to one of confusion.

"Winthrop Cahill. No, no, no. Sorry. Winthrop _Herald Reginold_ Cahill - the III. There can be lots of Winthrop Cahills."

Rage blinked.

"And Luke." A slightly dreamy smile began to tickle Pulta's face as she turned to go once more. "Can't forget Luke."

**-=-(*)-=-**

Lapulta stared at the apartment ceiling. It was the average ceiling; the average height. It was white - the average white; not cloud white, or turtle white - although however a turtle could be called 'white' was beyond her imagination. It had an average-height window in the wall overlooking the campus and there was an average-size closet that barely allowed four pairs of shoes inside it. Her bed was average. It had an average, dull-colored quilt covering it; an average nightstand beside it. To the window-side of the room was an average desk with average math papers scattered all over.

It was nothing exciting. It was average; plain, in fact, to the more adventurous-loving college student. Not a guy had set foot on the stairs of the apartment - more or less in the bedroom. There were no papers with F's on them; only A's - perhaps B's.

Yet to Pulta, it was incredible; awe-inducing. Fearsome, even. And the terrors of the room couldn't even be counted with the horrors of the apartment. Flushing toilets? Running water?

It was average, but implausible.

Simple, though staggering.

Pulta rolled over, expecting at any moment to feel the awkward rubbing of wool nightgown against her skin; the mattress was much more comfortable than her scratchy one made of straw - yet she would've traded it for the world now.

Why?

Lapulta closed her eyes tight and prayed to forget. It wasn't right to remember what should've never been touched. Winthrop was not her responsibility, he was Luke's. But God... Luke. She wrapped the pillow tightly around her head as she resisted the choking feeling that lodged in her chest. It wasn't fair. Why did _she_ have to be the one that could see the little, stifling part of him that was begging - pleading - to be let out as it lay repressed in a troubled heart? Why did she have that stupid, unforgettable longing to be loved?

Life wasn't fair, she reminded herself for the sixth billionth time.

Right. She let the pillow go and it flopped itself, and her back into their original positions facing the ceiling.

Life wasn't fair; so it sucked.

A dry laugh escaped her throat. That wasn't precisely true. But was anything? And if so, what was?

_God_. Her brain answered the rhytorical question. _And God made you one way for a reason._

_To be loved._ She pleaded with the point hopefully. _Maybe, at least._

But why by Luke? What about that impenetrable, indecipherable exterior drew her to him? Why couldn't she brush him off like all the other fellows she'd met, smiled at, and pulled away from? She'd done it plenty of times; she had more than enough practice.

Yet it was thouroughly impossible. She couldn't conceivably go anywhere. Was that why she'd been so cheeky to him? Her heart knew deep inside that she needed him more than anything; she needed that hope that being loved wouldn't destroy her, and that someone, somwhere, in some time, would love her just as much as she could possibly love him. No matter how she acted, he'd be able to see inside.

Lapulta rolled over, closing her eyes in a futile attempt to shut out the pain.

And it was then she realized it was what she'd always hoped for. That love beyond measure - the same kind of love God had for her - was what she longed for; no, what she _needed_. Nobody she'd ever met had even offered it.

They offered a one-night-stand, a steamy smile and a quick goodbye. Where was love in that? Where would her heart be? Tossed randomly to every fellow that passed her way?

Never.

She would love one person, and one person would get her heart; her whole heart.

No, she wasn't going to throw herself at him; that would get them nowhere. She was going to crack his heart and peer inside. And then what would happen, would happen. Lapulta had no future.

Pulta did.

She ripped off the covers, and staggered over to the closet - while slightly suffering from inertia - where she'd so lovingly placed the green dress she'd been wearing a few hours before. The astonishing length of time it took to get into it seemed... almost fitting. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons, yet she managed them quicker than she ever had before.

Leaving the shoes, she slipped barefoot out of her room and down the hallway to the small spiral staircase into the front room which led into her twinsie's lab. "RAGE!"

Almost instantly a sleepy, tripping girl made her way out of the bedroom. A light sleeper suffered much. "Whuh?"

She held the edges of the dress as she hurried down the iron steps.

Rage blinked a few times, then suddenly realized what her twin had in mind. "LAPULTA RAGWRINE, GET BACK HERE THIS INSTANT!"

Pulta hurried into the lab and tossed already disorganized papers around, trying to find the button. Rage's footsteps pounded on down the stairs when she discovered the red thing under a essay of marine biology.

They both stopped dead; Rage in the doorway while rubbing her eyes, Pulta with her hand held threateningly over the button.

"Don't," Rage whispered. "Come on, Laps. You know it's not going to be anything. You read about history in a book! Why do you love a _murderer_ for heaven's sake?"

"You know precisely how I feel about the subject."

"But really? It's eleven. In the middle of the night. Go to bed; you'll forget about everything in the morning."

"No, I won't. And you know it. Why did you send me back _then_? Why-"

"I didn't; you did. I can't control your thoughts."

"Then you shouldn't have used me as a test subject! You could've told me! I could've gone back to - I don't know. Joan of Arc?"

"Fine. I'm sorry. Is that what you want? Now get upstairs and let's go to bed. And take off those stupid things. That skirt makes your legs look fat."

Hand dropping on the button, Pulta instantly flung herself into the time machine as Rage leapt forward to press the button again. There was a blinding white flash, and then she disappeared.


	9. Chapter 9

**Dang, I loved writing this. Death-threat scenes are so awesome to write... :D**

**I would like to thank everybody for all the reviews; they mean a lot to me, and you encourage me continuously. THIS WILL GET FINISHED! Eventually... of course. ;D And just think! The only short multi-chapter I've finished! :D**

**Pine, you're the dedicatee. ;)**

**I think I kinda took for granted that everyone knew Rage was an Ekat. o.o Sorry. My apologies there. Yes, Rage is an Ekat. A least- that's what I've been **_**told**_**... XD**

**And... might I say that when I was writing this, I pictured Dami dressed up in a Ronald McDonald costume? Clowns are evvviiiiilllll. 8(**

**I finished every previous sentence with an emocon. x|**

**-=-(*)-=-**

**Chapter Nine**

_There._

_The woman's grip on the handle of the pistol tightened. Every second that passed, the guard came closer, peering deeper and deeper into the underbrush of the forest to find her. Yet if she pulled the trigger, the entire dilapidated tower would be alerted of her arrival and a horrific bunch of guards would come after her. True... she had about fifteen rounds of bullets stuffed in her pockets, but it would be better not to use them than to run out._

_She cowered lower in the bushes as the guard's eyes passed directly over where she was hiding._

**-=-(*)-=-**

_The man clenched his teeth and snarled as the ever-tightening ropes chaffed against his raw wrists. It was futile, he knew, but he couldn't help attempting the escape rather than just sitting there like a stupid idiot who was _not_ the advisor to the king. Besides, the chair wasn't comfortable._

_"Given up yet, Cahill?"_

_He eyed the lord who had just walked in with a wary eye. "Let me go."_

_"I think you might find it more hospitable if you stopped trying so hard to get out. It can be quite pleasant in here."_

_"The roof leaks." And it was no coincidence that his chair had been placed directly over a rather large hole._

_"Pardon," The lord leaned against the walk - perfectly, infuriatingly calm. "It'll be fixed soon enough."_

_The man growled, attempting to hide his action of picking at the ropes with his fingernail. It was too short, and he soon gave up the attempt._

_"Here," the lord suddenly waggled a small pocket knife he'd pulled from his pocket. Walking over, he sliced the bonds with one, smooth move. The man rubbed his wrists, waiting for the demand; it came with a demand, obviously. "Follow me."_

_"Ri-ight..." The man caught the unbelieving tone in his voice and mentally smacked himself for realizing he sounded like his wife._

_The lord's lips twisted up in a smile that looked more like a grimace. "Do what you please; but you cannot leave the room. If you follow me - I have... strings I can pull..."_

_The man weighted his options for a long minute, then stood up. "Where are we going?"_

_"Japan... Egypt."_

_The man raised an eyebrow, but decided not to ask for an explanation as they left the moldy room and exited into an even damper hallway. Their steps sounded eerily hollow as they walked along, and the lord finally let off a soft chuckle of amusement._

_"You know, Cahill, you failed entirely. You came to kill me, yet I-"_

_"Stop gloating," the man snapped._

_The lord sent a sly smile over his shoulder. "And then what? I can boast then, can't I?"_

_The man shut up. There were too many words that were synonyms to 'gloat'._

_They reached the end of the hallway where a flight of stairs led up. The lord started up them, the man following. Neither of them touched the mossy handrail; its maggot-infested decay was noted all too clearly with the slight light above from cracks in the stone. As they continued up, the man noted that it spiraled tightly. He was in a tower, then; useful information. His mind instinctively tried to count the steps to make him remember them better when he was rushing down._

_The lord paused for a moment as they broke off the staircase onto another floor which was precisely above the one he'd been on. The man judged they'd spiraled up twice._

_"Here..." the lord paused at another door and then took a key out of his pocket which he fitted into the lock and turned. The door gave a click and popped open slightly._

_The man stayed back, wary, as the lord walked into the room. He could hear a skirt swishing around and then a very _familiar_ woman's voice commenting dryly: "Oh, you again."_

_The lord's reply was too low to note, but the woman snorted. "Really?"_

_Another low reply._

_"Oh, quite right. But you know they won't work together. And what are you going to do then?"_

_The man clenched his fists at his side, too engrossed to stay hidden. He glanced around the door post at the woman - who's back was to him, thankfully. The hair was short and fair, but thick and curly; she had a creamish dress on._

_The pieces of the lord's plan began to click into place. It was as perfect as a puzzle; no... as a map._

_The man jerked away, hiding behind the wall once more as the lord's footsteps made their way towards him. The door was shut, and the lord smiled as he turned the key in the lock again. "Your sister seems happy; it doesn't take all that much, does it? A few books - nothing more."_

_"Fiend."_

_The lord didn't seem to noticed the comment. "We're quite alike, her and I. What do you think."_

_"Let us go."_

_"As if those three words would convince me to release you and your pathetic siblings? The books you've read are not those that I prefer. Fairytales are fantasies, and the real world has no 'happily-ever-afters' as you call them."_

_The man gritted his teeth, all too aware of the knife hanging from the lord's belt if he decided to act out of line. Siblings. Not sibling. And Thomas never went anywhere without Katherine._

_"Where is he?"_

_"Top floor." A smile twitched at the lord's face. "I found it necessary to take drastic measures to restrain your brother. It wouldn't do much good if he knocked out a cornerstone and the whole thing went tumbling down, now, would it?"_

_The man's fists trembled._

_Once again, they spiraled up twice before reaching the third, and final landing. A dull, thudding sound met their ears and another smile seemed to slip onto the lord's face without his features ever moving. That time, they avoided the door, taking a side route farther down that seemed to wrap around the room itself. The lord knelt down and removed a single, loose stone. "Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, is he?"_

_The man had to slightly agree with that as he glanced in the room. All the walls seemed nearly obtuse with gratitude to the boy - he couldn't have been more than seventeen - who was throwing his full weight against them._

_"Astonishing," the lord murmured. "And yet he's good for absolutely nothing. It's such a shame..."_

_The man shoved the brick back into place before letting his voice rise slightly. "He is _not_." And then he wondered why he'd even stood up for his brother._

_"Then what for?"_

_And there wasn't really anything he could answer to that._

_"See," the lord led him back out into the hallway. "It goes like this; you know what I want to know. You tell me. I let everyone go. Frankly, if you don't; I kill them both."_

_"And what if I still don't tell you then?"_

_The lord's smile was truly awful to behold. "Then I kill your son. And... if that makes no effect, then I can kill your second son; third child, if that's how long it takes, and then your wife. And then what reason would having that knowledge even to for you?"_

_Dead silence reigned, punctuated only by the thuds of a body hitting stone. "How long do I have?" The man finally whispered._

_"One day," the lord answered softly. "Think it over. GUARDS."_

_The thuds switched to the door as the footsteps of a dozen soldiers sounded through the hallway. They surrounded him, no matter how many punches the man's sore fists landed; he could hear the blunt edge of the sword as it whistled down. And he barely had time to groan in remembrance of an aching headache before it landed on his head and blackness overcame him._


	10. Chapter 10

**Hello: to you. ;D I just realized how amazing that sounds. It can also mean that the dedication is to Hello...**

**And secondly, I have decided that this/present chapter - the next one - shall be changed, which means that it might be a bit before I update Chapter Twelve. It's just... I feel I've lost the touch there with Luke and I want it back. Therefore, editing before story is done. o.o**

**It shouldn't be too long though; maybe a week at most.**

**THREE CHAPTERS! THREE CHAPTERS AND THEN I'LL BE DONE! HA! :D I **_**CAN**_** FINISH SHORT STORIES WHEN THEY ARE NOT /over/ TWENTY-ONE CHAPTER LONG! :D**

**(So... within technicalities... you have eleven chapter to go... ;D enjoy)**

**-=-(*)-=-**

**Chapter Ten**

Luke paused, blinking, then shook his head to rid any other thoughts from it. It was an odd thing to happen, but it seemed to be coming more, and more frequently. But it was not about - God forbid ..._her_... Never. Never in a million years would he be unhappy she'd gone. No worries about Winthrop or his weekly tutor-firing spree would make him regret she'd vanished from the face of the earth.

Good riddance.

It was just Winni- _Winthrop_. There had been too many tutors, and too many nights of Mary's insistant begging for him to go see him. He'd probably lost about four hours of sleep either way. He had a reason to be absent-minded.

Luke stuck his quill back to the parchment and began scribbling again until a mysterious thump in the room jerked him out of his work. He quit writing to hear a rather intimiated: 'oh...' behind him in a suspiciously familiar voice. He looked over his shoulder.

Typical. Pulta sitting on the floor of his room - barefoot, no less - just as obtrusive as she'd left.

He suddenly discovered a wry smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. "And where did you disappear to, Miss. Always-Right Ragwrine? You've been gone a month."

She scrambled to her feet, a guilty look on her face. "I'm- I'm sorry. I didn't mean to think quite _that_ hard..."

"Thinking? What? Were you sleep-walking? I'm going to have to start locking my doors."

She flushed a rather irked red. "No. I landed here, if you want to know."

"So... now you're a space creature?"

"Alien," she corrected. "And no. I... I don't think I'll tell you... yet. But I'm sorry. " She had already made her way to her feet. Turning quickly around, she started towards the door which she opened, and slipped out into the hallway.

Luke shook his head and turned back to his work.

"Wait."

He looked over his shoulder again.

"Can I? I mean- I really do love working with Winnie-"

Luke focused back on the papers. "His name is Winthrop. And considering the fact that he's thrown the entire place into an uproar without you; yes, you may. Good luck. And for heaven's sake, stop everyone from giving him what he wants. He's becoming a spoiled pig."

Pulta didn't reply for a long moment, which he took as silent disagreement, and then the door shut and he was left alone again.

Yet he blinked. What had he _just_ been working on?

**-=-(*)-=-**

She had been fired for the third time.

Pulta pulled the quilt closer around her shoulders and wondered if there was a hall of fame for 'World's most-fired Maids'. The remembrance of the argument stung her; he was completely set for Winthrop to master calculus - or whatever the highest form of math was here - by ten. _Ten!_ Childhood was so precious. Why couldn't he see that? He wasn't blind; that was obvious. But he was so... terrified by everything - but not terrified. Brazenly terrified. He had learned to cover the fear with that straight-faced outer look and knowledge. And he was utterly convinced that Winthrop was to have that too.

Another thing she was going to have to start chipping at.

Pulta sighed softly. Leaning against the tree, she turned her head up to look at the stars. "Our Heavenly Father..." she paused. "Can I bother you for a minute?"

The stars winked gently above her head, and she decided to judge that as an acknowledgement.

"It- It seems so contradictory when people start saying: 'it isn't fair'; life isn't fair. But since it isn't, wouldn't you then say: 'life is fair'? I just noticed that. Can you lead me to a couple verses when I get home? I don't have a Bible here..."

She closed her eyes. "And what about Luke? _Am_ I wrong? I don't think I am, but..." she could feel her own voice trail off into the unconscious thoughts of worry. "... please give me wisdom... And please, help Rage cross the room soon so she can beam me back; I mean, don't let her trip or anything... In the Lord Jesus Christ's name... Amen."

Pulta yawned, scanning the side of the castle over again for any movement. Then when there was none, she curled back up into her protective ball and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

**-=-(*)-=-**

"MYNSTRALE- _MYNSTRALE_!"

Pulta blinked, brain shaking itself quickly into working-order as the scream of utter terror split the air.

Why was she the one stuck in all these situations?

Doubling over, she weasled her way up to normal human-height while closing her eyes and yawning as she stretched. The quilt fell off her shoulders onto the roots of the tree. It was a perfect day. The sun was partly hidden behind two large, fluffy white clouds so it wasn't quite warm, but not chilly at all. The brook bubbled past nearby, merrily alerting all those nearby of its route down to the sea. The castle was alive with people. Birds chittered away in the treetoops; a noisy red robin decided to perch just above her head.

"MYNSTRALE!"

Who in all of Middle-Earth was Mynstrale? And why was someone calling so desperately for him at daybreak?

Pulta took her time as she climbed up the rise, making her way nearer the castle. An early daisy was blooming. She paused to look at it, smiling at the perfect, dazzling symmetry it had. A sudden pounding of hooves jerked her from her thoughts. They thudded the ground like thunder, but so hypnotizing she stopped again, barely at the crest of the hill as she thought out the scene that would meet her.

A wild boar, perhaps - named Mynstrale? Maybe a run-away slave. She winced at the second thought, wondering just how she could possibly help the slave - if that was the problem.

Taking the last few steps, she rose to the top of the hill and her heart slid all the way back down. "WINTHROP! _WINNIE, RUN_! RUN, WINNIE!"

He was frozen. He would never get out of the way in time. Her throat choked in horror as the wild stallion shook its head and snorting piquantly, turned towards the boy who he saw as a threat - however small. She zeroed in on the crowd chasing after the horse: Mynstrale, then. They saw the danger as well; they'd never reach him.

Hell to those who saw her ankles.

Pulling up her skirts, she tumbled down the hill, barreling as fast as her legs would carry her towards Winthrop. "WINNIE, COME!"

He saw her. She could make out the streaks of lighter skin against his cheeks where the tears had trickled down. He was three. He had no idea of what to do.

"WINNIE, _COME_!"

He stumbled once towards her, then slowly picked up his pace into a run. It was like watching a Lambourgini over take a 1683 Volkswagon. Mynstrale tossed his head in victory, tail up and eyes white with fury over nothing. His legs pounded the earth, shaking all beneath him. Pulta would've stopped dead at any other time to watch such a magnificent animal, but all the strength and speed only plunged her stomach into the ground.

Winthrop tripped. The force of the horse alone forbade him to get up; his sobs inhibited it.

_No._ Pulta flung herself forward again, diverting her route from Winthrop, to Mynstrale. She couldn't think. Only act; there was no time for thinking. But Winthrop was not going to die. Not if she died, and all her dreams dissolved into air. _Never._ The anger built inside of her, stacking to match that of Mynstrale. She could feel the crowd closer than ever, but still helpless.

She threw herself before the horse. He reared up, his hooves landing in front of her face. His heavy breaths shoved back her messy hair and for the half-moment, fear stopped all time. Every magpie in the forest had grown silent; but for the swishing of the crowd's feet through grass, there was no sound. Nobody screamed. There wasn't a word. Winthrop cried mutely behind her.

Mynstrale's ears finally shot back. His lips curled up, exposing large, yellow teeth. Tilting his head slightly to the side so he could see her better than her being in his blind spot, he storted again, daring her to defy him.

Pulta snorted back, leaning forward with such a furious look in her eye, the horse took a step back and turned aside, looking for a way around her. She stepped with him, glaring at him each time he tried to find another path. Finally he reared up, pawing the air with his forelegs. She rushed at him, snorting again.

The horse backed off while bobbing his head with aggitation. His ears, thankfully, were no lo;nger plastered to his skull.

A hand - seemingly appearing from nowhere - grabbed his halter. Mynstrale relented to the tugging on his head - still bobbing it in a frustrated rhythm - and consequently, was led away. In a final moment, Pulta felt her legs dissolve to Jell-o. Falling back into the grass, she momentarily felt Winthrop crawl into her arms and lay there with his hot tears running down her neck. She hugged him gently, allowing the pulsing crowd to hover about them and make whispered comments about bravery. Someone helped her up; hands reached out to take Winthrop, but she clung all the tighter to him. It was as if in leaving him, another horse would appear out of nowhere, and that time, she wouldn't be able to stop him.

"Leave off." A group of guards broke into the crowd and it began to slit up; people went about their tasks again. "Go on."

Suddenly Winthrop began to wiggle; he squirmed around until he was faced away from her, and then sniffled. Pulta looked up to see Luke there, barely two feet from her with his eyes filled with some sort of terrified gratefulness.

Winthrop reached out for him, begging silently to be out of her arms, and Pulta let him go. Luke flinched as his son locked his arms around his neck, allowing himself to wrap his arms around his waist so he wouldn't fall, though his poise told him otherwise. Pulta waited.

"Thank you," he finally whispered. "You... you could've been killed."

"Better me than Winnie."

Luke paused, tightening his grip on Winthrop. "I... saw what happened."

"The horse was wild; just brought in last night, I think. He spooked. It wasn't anyone's fault." She noted the way he hadn't pounced on her for calling Winthrop, Winnie; a step in the right direction.

Luke flinched again, his face gaining back a bit of its iron mask. "It was the handler's fault. Whoever was stupid enough to let him loose ought to be-"

"No harm's done."

He stopped again, holding her gaze with a curious look until she was forced to turn slightly aside. "I lost my temper last night," he finally murmured. "I apologize."

"It is accepted." She managed a thread of a smile that barely turned up the corners of her mouth.

"Will you..." he shifted Winthrop hesitantly to the other arm. "Will you come back?"

"-for Winnie?"

"Of course."

"I would be honored."

He nodded with a hint of relief in his eyes.

"And... I think we ought to work inside for the next few days - just to rest."

The eyes became teasingly sly. "Thank you."

Pulta snorted laughingly and turned away.

**-=-(*)-=-**

_"It would please me to see you after you're done."_

Pulta hesitated before she opened the door. For what? It wasn't like he was going to eat her alive; he would've done that a long time ago. She grinned to herself and pushed open the latch. It was open, and it gave easily without any squeaking. Just as well, she noted to herself. It wasn't like she could've dug up some WD-40 when she was shot back to the future.

He was standing right by his desk, but turned around once she had reached the entranceway and dodged the piles of boots there. "You came."

Pulta raised an eyebrow. "You... summonded me."

"I didn't think you would come. You seem to have your own ideas about what you'll do."

"I do," she shrugged. "But I do listen once in a blue moon."

There was a wry smile at that. "Have a seat."

She obeyed, finding a single chair nearby facing his desk and the door out to the balcony.

Looping his arms dignifiedly behind him, Luke faced the window. "My wife died..." he finally spoke. "... when Winthrop was born; I didn't marry again. But... he needs a mother. I'm sure you agree."

"I do," she stated flatly, shrugging.

Luke paused, staring out the window for the longest time. "I don't think- I don't think I ever imagined I _would_ marry again. But Winnie's taken to you more than any tutor he's had - ever, frankly. And you've helped him more than anyone he's ever had - also." His hands shifted behind him, his thumbs rubbing subconsciously with his first finger. "Pulta... I ask you for his sake-"

"You want me to marry you." Her cheeks were undoubtably a brilliant, blushing shade of red, and she couldn't seem to find a suitable, comfortable position in the chair.

Luke glanced back at her, raising an eyebrow. "Frankly... yes."

Pulta decided to ditch the chair; she slid up, searching for the right words. "Do you love me?" she finally managed to whisper.

A frown shuddered across his face before disappearing. "I'm sure things will work out; duty first, feelings later."

"No," she closed her eyes momentarily, trying to deflect the instantaneous feeling of crushing hurt. "No... not without love."

Luke snorted. "Love is always unrequited. People only speak of it because they think they need it; it's only another thing that people can harness you by - only another thing people can destroy. It is worthless."

"Is _not_." Pulta whispered, but her voice choked.

"You are twenty," turning around on his heel, Luke scrutinized her aghast face. "And don't look at me that way; I asked Mary. As to the aforesaid comment, it would be extremely childish to say: '_Is too_'. Besides, what about Winthrop? He _needs_ you. You would leave him-"

"No. It's... it's not that..." A trickle of the pain she felt slipped loose and flitted across her face before she hid it again, "... I- I can't. I can't marry without love. No matter how much he needs me."

Luke cocked his head, then stepped forward. She stepped back against the wall, sucking in her breath quietly as he tucked a finger under her chin and tilted it gently up. "Then why do you love me? I'm not blind, Pulta."

He was intoxicatingly close. She swallowed, steeling herself to the best of her ability. "I never said you were."

"Marry me."

"I can't." Reaching up, she softly brushed his hand down and away. "I won't marry someone who doesn't love me. I want... I want my husband to love me enough that he would die for me; just as I'd do the same for him."

"What if I said that I love you?"

"Empty words," she couldn't stop herself from looking everywhere but at his eyes. "Empty promises. They mean nothing. All my life those words have been used as a ruse, and I promised myself I would never be entangled in them. I won't be used."

"You won't be."

"You only want me for Winthrop. I call that used."

"Wording is a matter of phrases, and phrases can easily be taken astray by other eyes."

"Then I won't be," she whispered. "I can't marry you for Winthrop. There are plenty other people in the castle if you wish for someone to do that. I'm sorry."

He stepped back, and she could feel him staring for longer than she had known eyes could stare into her face until there was a nod. "Thank you," he finally whispered. "That was all I wanted."

Pulta nodded appositely, still limiting her vision range as she dropped a smooth, even curtsy. "Good night, milord," she whispered, quite aware how foreign the words sounded on her lips as it was the first time she'd said them.

The boots turned away and he didn't respond.


	11. Chapter 11

**In this chapter... tell me if you see any interesting comparisons to the last chapter. ;D**

**PurpleRose: I have now dubbed you, therefore, Rosie, or Rose. Addicted? You are dubbed Agent29 for reasons that I do not know. :) Whenever people follow my stories faithfully for a while, I eventually coin up nicknames for them so when I'm thinking in bed and going: "Oh, man... thanks Agent29." then I can actually call you something than not even knowing your name. ;D Are those okay, you two? *peers anxiously* And for Kahillkid: Kidda. After Kiba in Wolf's Rain, who I have found that I adore.**

**For you, Rose. ;D *hugs new friend***

**-=-(*)-=-**

**Chapter Eleven**

_She smiled - if you could call it a smile; one corner of her mouth turned up in a perfectly _secret_ way. Her eyebrows, of course, lifted laughingly at his situation and then she crossed her arms, leaning against the doorway, allowing the strage, metal object to dangle carelessly from her right hand._

_"In order to cut you free, I have two demands that must be met."_

_The man eyed her warily. "Demands... The only thing I demand right now is the fact that you get out of here as quickly as you can move - whether on horse, or on foot."_

_An eyebrow was leisurely raised. "I thought I gave the demands." The woman stepped closer, eyes twinkling. "Now it's three: firstly, I'm not going anywhere; secondly, you must - and I say, _must _- promise me that you will never _ever _leave, when you know - I'm not stupid, Luke - that it is a trap; and thirdly, I want a kiss. A _good_ kiss."_

_"Unreasonable," he snapped flatly. "Now get out of here before the lord comes back."_

_"Preposterous." She shrugged. "Besides, it would be silly to tell you to 'make me'. You're tied up. You couldn't do much."_

_The man glared at her._

_The woman shrugged, stepping closer and revealing a pocketknife that had been hidden inside _his_ breeches. The man growled. He'd left that there for a reason; and castrating the abomidable Duke of Threstnle had _not_ been one of them... technically... "Promise..."_

_"Get out of here. I can manage myself; you don't have time for this."_

_"I said it once, and I'll say it again: I'm not going anywhere. If anyone's wasting time, it's you."_

_The man's mouth twitched._

_Sighing, the woman stepped into the room. "You knew it was a trap."_

_"So?"_

_"You didn't tell me."_

_"It would've worried you; besides, there wasn't really time. And speaking of worrying, with whom did you leave Peter?"_

_"Mary," the woman frowned slightly, thinking back. "He's safe though. I sent her... Luke...? Oh sho-" The metal object in her hand flew up as the guard behind her pounced. A loud shot echoed throughout the room and the guard crumpled to the floor, bleeding profoundly from the chest. The woman leaped forward, avoiding the body. Yanking the knife out of her pocket again, she quickly sawed through the bands that held the rather stunned, blinking man. "Hurry. I was trying not to-"_

_"Wait, what was-"_

_"I'll explain later." Grabbing his arms, she tugged him to his feet but was pulled back. "Luke-"_

_"_One_ demand I can do."_

_She crumpled under his touch, even though he could feel she absolutely, positively knew better than wrapping her arms around his neck and allowing her lips to meet his. "We... we don't have time..."_

_"Hush. Once won't hurt."_

_She laughed softly against his neck, laying her head on his shoulder. "That's twice. I'm going to have to take you back with Winnie and recite your numbers."_

_The man smiled, though slowly allowing it to fade as he slid his hands down to rest gently on her rounded waist._

_The woman bit her lip. "He's... been worried the past weeks; we both have. He's been kicking at night."_

_"She."_

_From what usually was an impish grin, he only gained a worried plea. "Now isn't the time to argue, Luke."_

_"You're right." The man closed his eyes and mentally recovered the partial map of the tower he'd gained only hours before. "We have to hurry. Half of London must've heard that bang. Where's Winnie?"_

_She paled. "You don't know?"_

_"Dammit; he knew we'd go after him fir-"_

_Two guards burst in the door, crossbows aimed. The metal object was faster and the woman shot them down with unerring aim. They slept the eternal sleep with the first unlucky guard who had dared enter the room. "First? Who else does he have?"_

_The man winced slightly as if recovering a painful memory. "Katherine... and Tom."_

_"Dang."_

_"Precisely."_

_They stared at each other for a long moment. "So... where were they?"_

_"Up."_

_"Then we go-"_

_"-Down."_

**-=-(*)-=-**

_"Is there a reason why you're wearing my things?"_

_He could see the woman flushing, even in the dark, although her being in front with whatever-she-had did help. "I didn't get too many pleasant looks, but I got answers, and that's more important."_

_Finishing the first spiral... "You got grass stains on them."_

_He got a dirty look._

_"Wait, shh. Someone-"_

_They pressed silently against the damp stones as footsteps neared, revibrating through the walls and jarring their backs. Her face paled, suddenly contorted with some distant form of horror and disgust as they drew closer. The free hand slid over her belly and she leaned more against the wall. The metal object was pressed into his hand. "Pull... pull the trigger."_

_"Silla-"_

_She twisted against the stones, biting down on her perfectly shaped lips to hold in the cry of pain. A hand slid over though, somehow managing to rearrange the way his fingers were placed on the object. "I though... I thought..." She gasped and slid down against the wall, leaving one hand there for support and the other braced against her stomach._

_The footsteps echoed in the stairwell, picking up speed. There was no more talk among the guards as they hurried to terminate the intruders, and the man slightly wished there had been; it would've given clues to the tower's placement, at least. But then they rounded the corner. His finger snapped back on the trigger without thinking and a violent jerk thrust back his arm; one fellow dropped in place, the other only staring wide-eyed. He shot again, ignoring the pain seeping through his shoulders and back._

_The woman's gasping stopped momentarily to compensate for the act of vomiting on the lower stairs. Dropping beside her, he gently pulled back the loose strands of hair around her face. "I thought-"_

_She shuddered, head leaning back a bit so it was barely brushing his thigh. "So... so did I. They all said... it ended at three months... Mostly... at least." Pausing for a moment, she blanched before vomiting again, that time nearly on top of the bodies._

_"Puke," the man whispered, managing a half-hearted smile. "Fits, doesn't it?"_

_She shot him The Look before upchucking part of another meal._

_"You... you have to go," she whispered finally._

_"Make me."_

_She leaned back again, shuddering like the last time; only he was quite certain it wasn't from the child inside her. The worst of the sickness was over, but her face was still contorted with pain. "I- I can't go."_

_"Then I'm not going anywhere."_

_She shot him The Look once more. "You'll bring him to me, won't you? He can't be far."_

_"Silla..."_

_"You know I hate it when you call me that." She began to dig her in her pocket - _his_ pocket, technically - until she revealed a small, circular band with ten cylandrical objects connected to it. Taking the metal what-not, she pulled a hidden lever and emptied identical cartilages out. They bounced hollowly down the stairs, echoing into the darkness. Ignoring the dark setiments, the woman shoved the band into place where the others had been and flicked the lever back into its hidden position. "There," she murmured, pressing it into his hand. "You have ten shots."_

_"I'm not-"_

_She hugged her stomach gently. "I'll be fine; I probably look half dead anyway. Just... find him. And hurry."_

_The man met her eyes for a long moment, then slowly nodded and took the metal article. He stepped over the bodies and forced himself not to look back._


	12. Chapter 12

**When I say: MDSA, it stands for Multiplication-Division-Subtraction-Addition.**

**This is a relatively long chapter; the one I noted that would probably be long before. There's two more like this, and then it's pretty short.**

**I changed the final part, and then a section of the bear part. I'm pretty sure you'll be able to tell where I did it, because it was done at one in the morning... etc. etc. etc... o.o**

**Turns out I counted wrong. XD I have to go back to kindergarden. There's going to be twenty chapters; eight more to go. FYI: Anyone know what the color of Winnie's hair is? I checked, but nothing came up in VR... /facepalm/ I'm asking people for the color of a book char's hair...**

**This is undoubtably my worst chapter; and my best. My favorite, and my most hated. It is the one closest to my heart, yet my hardest to connect to. I tried my best with the editing process but I don't know... I hope it's not too atrocious... :)x (crossed fingers)**

**-=-(*)-=-**

**Chapter Twelve**

"I don't have time for jokes, Mary..." Luke growled.

"But I ain't jokin', milord. T'ere's a bear in t'ose woods, 'ure 'nd certain. I 'eard-" she set the platter of sweetmeats on the far side of his desk where the papers wouldn't bothered. "I 'eard 'at it ate up a good sized bairn 'early a week ago. It ought be 'ungry again; Winnie'd mak' a pretty plump morsel, all said."

Luke gave her a firm glance. "A week ago? Really? And it's in London?"

She nodded, placing her hands on her heavy-set hips. She was a good-natured, motherly woman, but she was used to her advice being taken; and she certainly wasn't one to be made a fool of. "'ah know my sourc's."

"Sources?" He rolled his eyes and turned back to his sheets of Latin. "And, pray tell, was that what the guard told the footman, who told the cook, who told a maid, who told you?"

Mary flushed. "Now list'n 'ere, milord. It won't do for t'at pretty litt'e lass and 'eaven knows your on'y son to get ea'en up by some 'vil-minded creature. Don't 'ive me t'at look." She waggled a finger at him. "I've a-seen 'ow you looked at 'er; 'ou'll miss 'er sure and 'ertain."

"I'd be glad to see her gone; take one more thing to think about off my mind."

The woman shrugged helplessly. "T'e male race I'll ne'r understan'. Bu' mark my words, milord. I's a mean, ugly t'ing, 'n bears ain't ones to not make sele'ions on 'eir meals; its in t'ese woods, and it's a dang'rous thing to 'ave 'bout."

Luke snorted.

**-=-(*)-=-**

"You're blind. Clouds don't look like fish."

Winthrop giggled. "But it _does_. Look: there's the head - and then there's the tail."

"But there are so many more parts that make up a fish than just a head and a tail. Just like there are many parts that make up a whole."

"No fractions." Winthrop groaned, rolling his eyes and scrambling quickly to his feet. "You've been here for two weeks straight without something weird happening. We ought to celebrate."

Pulta pressed herself onto her hands and knees, eyeing him cautiously. "And just how would you suggest we do that?"

"Play a game." He looked around and then suddenly grabbed a handful of smooth stones. Separating them carefully on the ground, he counted out ten for her, and ten for himself.

She plopped down again beside him. "All right, I'll bite. What are you up to now?"

"I made this one up," he grinned. "See, you ask me a math question and we both put out stones. If I get the question right, I get both stones. Then I ask you; if you get it right, then you get two stones. It goes on till someone runs out of stones: then all the stones can be redemed for cookies."

Pulta raised an eyebrow. "Cookies?"

"I thought cream puffs were too sweet."

"Good thinking." Pulta took her stones in hand and mentally prepared herself. "MDSA all the way to twelves?"

"He nodded. But nothing over that on divisions; you have to be fair. Adding and subtracing is fine though."

"No outrageous things. I don't know the answer to one hundred million seventy-six thousand divided by twenty-eight off the top of my head."

"Okay." But he looked rather guilty. He'd probably been planning some ridiculous plot in his head. "Me first: fourty-two divide six."

"Seven." She scooped up the two stones. They made gleeful clicking noises as they landed in her pile. "one-twenty-one divide eleven."

"Hey! No fair!"

Pulta shrugged. "You should've studied them last night. I told you to do it. It's in the limit, anyway."

"... eleven?" He snatched up the stones as soon as she gave the approving nod. "Ha!"

"Luck doesn't account for good fortune."

"Whatever. Twelve by five."

Pulta hesitated. "Sixty. Ninety sub forty-five." He knew that one like the back of his hand. She waited for the expected quick answer, and then raised a slight eyebrow when he didn't respond. "Winnie?"

"Did you hear something?"

She shrugged. "It's probably the guards marching again. They ought to practice being quieter."

Nodding zealously, he turned back to the stones which seemed to favor her; he missed two, relenquishing more pebbles. "Drat."

"Silly goofball."

"Git."

Pulta shrugged and resorted to the harmless teasing. "Grape."

"Gallbladder." He lost another stone.

"Garnet."

"Griff-" Winthrop stopped, a desperately worried look on his face. "That's... that's not the guards, Pulta."

She tilted her head and listened. It was almost oblivious, sort of a huffing sound and a whisper of grass. Searching Winthrop's face again, she ascertained the authentic fear in it and scanned the forest line of the clearing across the brook. And then her heart stopped dead, causing her for just a moment to lose her breath. The bear caught it though. It grunted, huffed again, then continued stepping forward while it's shoulder blades rolling leisurely in their sockets as it waited for the right time to strike. Its beady little eyes glared in its head, certain of a fattening meal, and at that moment, Pulta wasn't quite sure if he was going to be wrong, or right.

"Winthrop," she breathed, reaching out a hand towards him without taking her eyes off the bear. "I want you to stand up; very slowly, now. No sudden moves. I want you to get behind me, and when I say to run, run as fast as you can to the nearest tree. Do you understand?"

He obeyed, eyes riveted on her face; and as he walked around, she could feel his eyes boring holes in the back of her head.

The bear still came on. It was rounding its path out now, measuring the distance of the clearing with the remnants of brain it had. Their escape route back to the castle was being cut off from the opening to the clearing as it circled; and it advanced again, slowly crouching farther down to spring.

Did bears spring?

"Run," Pulta breathed, then realized her whisper had been so soft not even the breeze could have heard her. "WINTHROP, RUN!"

The three creatures sprang into action; the bear forward, the humans back.

Pulta grabbed Winthrop's arm, making him cry out as she raced forward. She lost a slipper, but at that moment, she could really care less; she had better traction with only her toes anyway. Purposely losing the other slipper, she used the hand that had been holding up her skirts to hoist Winthrop off the ground. His legs pedaled air, which would've been amusing had it been any other time. Crushing him to her shoulder, Pulta clutched him with one hand and took up her skirts again with the other while praying they hadn't lost too many precious seconds to Death.

Cheating Death. Wasn't what she'd always dreamed of? Being a stinking awesome person with a capital 'A' and kicking Death's behind; or what about ringing Death's doorbell - just because he hated it?

Trees: Eight yards. The bear was going downhill. They were going up.

She had to remind herself that she hadn't asked for any stupid bear. All she'd wanted was to go and teach her governee for a few hours before going to be cooped up inside at twilight. Really? A _bear_? Couldn't Death have chosen-

Trees: Three yards. Her lungs pounded like they were going to explode.

-a better way for them to go? She could almost hear the Luke's voice as he explained to the king in an annoyed/sheepishly/Put-outed-ly way, his present predicament. _"Of course... a bear ate my governess and my son. I'm completely fine at the moment."_

She collapsed against the supple tree, gasping for breath, her arms working like pistons as Winthrop scrambled up into its towering branches using every available foothold - including her head. It hurt too much to say 'ow'. The bear was running now, eyes set on her, not Winthrop. Fear ricochted through her body, causing every had-been-sane nerve to become definitively haywire.

The branches were too high.

She leaped, a sob escaping her throat as her fingertips brushed the rough, tantalizing bark. She didn't want to die. She wasn't supposed to die from a stupid bear attack; she was supposed to die with love, in love's arms, with his face right above her for eternity. She leaped again - and again; Winthop - sweet Winnie - reached out, desperate, yet his hand higher than the branch she was aiming for. Pulta collapsed against the tree, arms clasped around herself with the hope of at least keeping the sobs in.

"PULT-_A_!"

The bear was just to the edge of the clearing; yards from her. She could see the black whiskers; the dripping curls of skin that managed to look like a drooling St. Bernard dog. A choking courage filled her and she stood up, sniffing once as she turned to meet him. At least she was dying _for_ someone. That made it better, didn't it? It wasn't like she died in a car accident driving to pick up the latest Kung Fu movie at Blockbuster, or had a heart attack... perhaps in a Chinese restaurant dramatically arguing with The Worst Chef on the Planet.

The last thought was so amusing a slight smile trickled its way onto her face and she immediately shot herself down for it. How could you think those things when you were about to die?

_If you must die, die happy_, she suddenly remembered.

And what better way to be happy than smile? She stared, grinning while positively terrified at the charging bear for one, frantic, desperate second, then ran behind the tree Winthrop was in; squashing a scream.

The bear, of course, followed her. She dodged around a second tree, figure-eighting around the bases. There was a furious growl and the bear changed directions, making her yelp as she countered herself and fled the opposite direction - until she over-ran him and stumbled to a stop in front of a mass of snarls and tangles.

As the bear reared up, she met its gaze - realizing her eyes were probably wider than dinner plates at that moment. Winthrop's scream was drowned out by the following roar.

And a figure leaped out from the side with a broadsword already streaking down.

The roar of triumph transformed to a formidable roar of pain - and anger. The bear leaned to the side, crashing down with its muscular bulk shuddering under the weight while already charging slightly forward to thrust a mighty paw at the figure. The man dodged, cutting down at the bear's face. There was a slight wound; not much, since most of it was deflected by the fur. She stumbled backward against the tree trunk as another deadly swipe missed.

Luke. Damn him. Luke.

Winthrop's cries began to alternate between sobs. Papa - Pulta - Papa - Pulta. He was only three... What three-year-old got nearly run over by a wild horse and eaten by a starving bear within the same month? Pulta forced herself to tune out his voice and focus on Luke's wild dance with death. The bear was gaining undeniably. It had almost forced him back into the thicker trees where it would have the advantage; there wasn't room to swing there - no room to do anything there.

Luke knew what was happening; he couldn't _not_ know. Yet he fought on, sword flashing again and again into the beast's face until beyond every effort, he was backed against an oak tree broad enough that it stopped both. The bear staggered up, not roaring but giving a barely audible snarl from somewhere deep within it. The paw raised up, claws round and sharp - more deadly than a sword would ever be; and it flashed down, scarring the tree as Luke ducked. He thrust the broadsword forward then, clenching it wildly with both hands as it sank into the beast's chest.

The bear roared and swiped around him at invisible targets that were dually missed. It stumbled back, giving Pulta a clear view of the shuddering mass of muscle and sinew that trembled on its dorsal side if she hadn't depicted it unmistakeably enough before. On its shoulder, there was a branded V, burned away onto the skin. And afterward, it subsequently collapsed like a balloon; the legs first, then the haunches, then the torso and front paws until finally, the head thumped to the ground. The bear gave a final, trembling shudder and a lifeless exhale before laying cold and still on the ground in front of all of them.

The chasm-like barrier formed by the body of the bear loomed incrossably ahead, forcing her to keep her eyes trained solely on Luke's. He met hers with a rather I-told-you-so, gaze - she wouldn't have been fired before if she had just agreed to _stay inside_ - and her mouth immediately twitched. "A good thing you chanced to be spying."

"A good thing I happen to be decently moderate with a sword."

She couldn't think of anything else to shoot at him, so she resorted to a quick nod and a polite 'thank you' that summarized the rest of the conversation.

Silence...

_Silence..._

**Silence...**

She could feel him fidgeting uncomfortably, just as she was. A bird chirped somewhere above their heads and an answering mate replied. They flew to each other, flitting around with little dips and pecks. Grinning, she remembered one of her favorite movies. "Twitterpated."

Glancing over the bear, she viewed as to how Luke had taken her comment. To her chagrin, he was ramrod stiff, watching the birds with a uncomfortably delusional aire as if they would somehow manage to magically transport him out of this tight spot.

"_Papa_..."

Luke turned instantly, awkward expression turning into one of worry. Without a word, he detoured around the bear and passed her, reaching up his arms so that Winthrop could drop easily into them. He was still crying, just quietly now, positively frozen with fear. Luke wrapped his arms around him, forming a ring of safety. Winthrop felt it, and Pulta could see him clinging tighter.

Luke caught her eye, making a partial nod back towards the castle. "_Come._"

She followed him.

About halfway there, a guard came running - missing his sword and scabbard to her delight and amusement. Luke appeared unpreturbed as the guard fidgeted wildly while Winthrop was smoothly deposited in his arms. "Raoul, take him up to Mary and tell her I said to put him in bed; he's had enough excitement for one day."

Only Luke would consider getting eaten 'mild excitement', as if it was a train ride, or a carnaval with perhaps too much cotton candy.

The guard stuttered, obviously attempting to discover some impeccable way to weasel out of his duty and not be a temporary baby-sitter. "Mi-milord..."

Luke raised an eyebrow.

"Yes..., milord."

"Good."

The guard turned away, alternating hands as if trying to discover which would hold Winthrop out at a greater length. The boy gave him a disgusted look, as if he was _really_ that repulsive and the guard settled on carrying him like he was relatively hog-tied over his shoulder. Winthrop gave a pleading look to his father who returned it with a quick glance that clearly read: '_It's for two minutes; deal with it._' Winthrop made a objectionable grimmace along with a couple dasterly looks at the guard which made it plain he wasn't going to be handled easily.

Pulta stepped to follow him, but Luke caught her arm. "Walk with me."

An order. She caught herself raising an eyebrow in silent inquiry and she quickly smoothed it down.

He saw it anyway. "I want to talk."

Talking. Yikes. Nodding, she allowed him to change their course more towards the northern gardens where the last of the summer flowers were blooming. He was quiet though, his face completely impassive although not as hard as usual. There was no comment on the weather - rather nippy, but not cold - or the interesting commotion gathering behind them - no doubt caused by the guard at the discovery of his missing scabbard and the dead bear. He seemed more interested in slipping away than in taking charge of anything - or talking.

Pulta glanced at the sky and at the few dark clouds gathering together up in the East before acknowledging their surroundings again.

He stopped suddenly, still looking about him. "You didn't have to do what you did."

"What I did-?"

"Not everyone would have saved him; most would've ran. A few might have attempted, then left him when the danger grew too close. Yet you would've died in his place - both with the horse, and now - and you've known him for three weeks. Why?"

Pulta flushed, turning away to try and uncover her answer. "I- I don't know."

He scanned her down in a matter of seconds. "You know."

Brilliant; someone who knew the answer before you gave a hint. How much could he tell from an austere: 'I don't know'?

He started walking again.

"I... don't know. Really. It's just-" she floundered, trying to piece the answer in her heart together. "He's... he's three. I've lived - somewhat, at least. But... he hasn't had the chance."

Luke was silent for approximately three paces. "I apologize."

"For what?"

"For the bear. Mary warned me, but I dismissed it as nothing more than a rumor. It was too odd - too out of place. There are many grapevines in the castle anyway, and those that reach messengers to other grapevines often are changed out of spite. There are too many cliques here."

"Less than in my world," Pulta muttered.

"I would assume that you have no clique."

She half-laughed, grinning at the mere mention that she could possibly be in an actually CLIQUE-ish clique. "I have a clique - sort of. It's just my friends and I; anyone who wants to come in, can come in; anyone who want to go out, can go out. It's not like we treat them any different. Well, maybe more cookies, but that's it."

His smiled slightly, showing that he would've rolled his eyes if he'd been less suave. "So does that mean there's no grudge?"

"NO." Pulta snapped flatly. "I will hate you for the rest of my life; until the END OF THE WORLD."

He raised both his eyebrows.

She collapsed into giggles, roaring with inoperative laughter. By the time she'd regained her composure, he had already begun walking again, looking partly over his shoulder with one eye trained on her. "There isn't any grudge. I can't hold grudges. It's a serious flaw of mine."

The left side of his mouth twitched up while he tried, in vain, to press it down. "Less serious than holding too many."

Her head tilted accreditingly. "True."

The sun began to slip behind the trees; they continued walking past the brook till they reached the forest edge. The grass underfoot became, unnoticably, moss, and the crunching of the first fall leaves sounded above them. Luke forsook the meadows and plunged deeper into the woodland. He seemed to take everything in a single glance, yet ignoring it all at the same time. Pulta bumped shoulders with an oak as she avoided stepping on a fern and smiled at its immediate, silent apology that mirrored her own. Trees were much friendlier than human beings.

"Luke?"

"Hm."

She dodged a snail-inhabited rock. "Where are we going?"

He shrugged. "Nowhere." Then he paused. "I... I don't want to think for a while."

"Why not?"

He lied. She could see it in his half-guilty expression and the regretful look in his eye. "It becomes tiring thinking of so much."

She decided to ignore it. "It's nightfall."

"Soon. Not now. It's darker because of the trees; it's only twilight."

They looked above at the canopy over their heads. Mist rose in delightful little upside-down showers to dampen all free thoughts and gently pat them down. Yet the silence grew heavier. Luke frowned, no doubt wondering whether to go back, or talk. Pulta closed her eyes, waiting.

"Why?"

She blinked. "Why what?"

"Why? Everything you ever could've wanted; wealth, power, fame. And yet you turned it aside."

Pulta flushed. "Luke..."

"I want to know." He leaned against a birch, crossing his arms. She wondered slightly if whatever was fluttering in her stomach at that moment was what Bella Swan had felt with Edward. _God. Forbid._

"Why?"

"Because..." he hesitated. "Many people would've taken it, no matter what they deemed important - family, religion otherwise. You didn't."

She flinched. "I don't want to be wealthy; power makes no sense to me - it's only another thing you have to take care of and use wisely; and famous people usually make me sick, frankly. Would you accept then?"

"Probably. It's my belief you can never have enough of power - or wealth."

"But the world is a box," Pulta whispered. "And when you think of those outside the box, you only discover that there's another box around the box - and so on."

"Of course."

"Then you know what happens."

He stared at her for a long time, brown eyes peering deep into her own. "It's a curse," he whispered.

"Yet an asset."

"More a curse." A cuckoo called through the now-dusk dark. "Do you have friends? Truly?"

"Ones I could have never hoped for."

"You are lucky. There are few now who understand."

"Those who understand can also sympathize."

Luke turned away from the tree, making his way west - a bit towards the castle, but taking the longer route. Pulta hurried after him. "I don't want him to have the same troubles; it isn't right."

Reaching forward, she caught onto his sleeve and pulled him to a stop. "But then you _give_ him what you didn't have. He adores you, but you never take the time to see it."

And for the first time, she could see him listening to her. It was a soundless conversation, eyes passing back and forth worthless, soundless tidbits of random information. Another bird called, then fluttered overhead, making both of them jump. They flushed red and turned away, suddenly finding that studying bits of stone on the ground was an interesting occupation of time. After a few moments, Luke chuckled slightly. "Mary seems utterly convinced."

"Of what?"

"Nothing. She has a vivid imagination."

Pulta found herself slightly amused, and grateful that she was a girl. Mary had cornered him and stuffed words in his mouth. Hilarious for anyone else, scarily confusing for her.

They continued walking; he still avoided the castle. "I want to apologize," he finally said.

"Hm... why?"

"I see what you mean now; I understand." There was a sardonic laugh. "More than you'll ever know, I think. I only asked because I knew anyone else would've accepted. It wasn't quite fair to you..." he paused. "Do-"

He was cut off by a desperate shriek. "AAHHH! BUG! THERE'SABUG! THERE'SABUG!" Pulta ran at least five paces away in pure terror. "KILLIT! KILLITKILLITKILLITKILLIT-" she gasped for air "-KILLITKILLITKILLITKILLIT!"

Luke stared at her, and then at the beetle crawling quickly under a stone. "Those aren't even poisonous."

"KILLIT."

"Why?"

"Ihatebugs."

"That's stupid. Look. It's gone." He turned over the stone to reveal a hole dug in the dirt to prove his point.

"Coverthehole."

"No."

"_Whynot?_"

"Because it's gone. What's the point of doing anything to it if there's no chance it's even going to hurt you?"

"Becauseitmightcome-uprightnextto-thecastleand-itwillclimbthroughthestones-at-nighttogetitsrevenge-and-it'lllayeggsinmyeyes-andletitslarvaeatme-fromtheinsideout."

He stared at her. "Really?"

"Please?"

He pursed his lips and kicked dirt over the hole. "Happy?"

She peered closely at it. "Can you stomp on it to make sure it doesn't come back out?"

Luke narrowed his eyes.

"Or... you can just throw the stone back on top."

He stomped on the dirt, then kicked the stone back in place and pressed that down a bit with an acerbic grin.

"Thanks." Pushing herself off the tree, Pulta glanced over to inspect his work and define whether the bug was going to come back out. There was a bit of uncovered soil where he might squeeze through - if it was made of kryptonite - but it wasn't likely. Once satisfied, she straightened up and gave him a weak smile. "I hate bugs."

"I can tell." He started walking again. "And why are you on a personal quest to kill them all?"

She shivered. "Let's just say I had a traumatic experience with some poisonous ones and leave it at that."

He kicked up a pebble from somewhere in the dirt and juggled it between his boots. "I used to hate bugs - most of them at least; I've gotten better."

"You talk about it like it was some sort of disease." She plucked a leaf from the ground - checked to make sure there were no bugs on it - and began to fold it.

He flinched. "I had... nightly experiences... with them in the university. I had to get over it."

Pulta frowned, creasing the leaf extra careful before she tugged another side off. "I have a feeling that those incidents weren't quite because of bad flooring..."

"Right. I wasn't precisely the linchpin."

She laughed. "And let me guess; the one who _was_ The Linchpin lived at least three doors down."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Personal experience. I live next to the hottest girl in Ohio State. I swear, she must spend more on makeup than on books."

Luke paused with a rather confused look on his face, obviously ignoring half of the things he didn't know. "Hot?"

"Pretty, I guess. Another word for that. And my roommate is a science freak who sneezes numbers. Figure of speech," she added at his glance. "Trust me, I'm not a personal favorite in the classes I take."

"Spite inducing, isn't it?"

Pulta shrugged. "I write stories of myself in alternate universes. It helps."

He frowned for a moment. "Why not grind up pepper and stick it through all her books? She wouldn't look half as nice with a tomato-face, and if you're lucky, she just might be allergic."

She gave him a considerate glance. "Not bad. Maybe I'll do that the next time she's out with a window open." Pulta bit her lip as she tore another part of the leaf off. It floated to the ground. "I wish, though... sometimes I was just as short-minded as they are - not my friends, the others. The-"

"I get it." Frowning for a moment, he stopped and glanced down at her. "Thank you."

"Goodness sakes, what for? You're the one who saved me from The Bug."

"For trying to understand," he whispered. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. And thank you for saving me from The Bug. It would've eaten me, you know. Bugs are like that."

He snorted, turning away with laughing eyes while she finished off the five-pointed star she'd made out of the leaf. After a few minutes, his direction began to change. He started out of the woods a bit towards the castle, making the going slightly easier with her flouncy skirt. "Nobody," he suddenly whispered then, stopping without a hint. She braked instantly, nearly plowing into him. "Nobody," he repeated. He whirled on her. "Nobody. Nobody ever cared. Why do you?"

"Why do-"

"You _care_," he managed. "I... I have never met a single person who cared about me in my life. Who _cared_." Luke searched her face insistently for a moment, then he clammed up and his expression disappeared. "I shouldn't be here," he turned away on his heel and strode off with quick, decisive strides. "Leave me."

"Luke..." And of course... now she _had_ to follow him. Pulta yanked her skirt off a few blackberry brambles and raced after him, managing to catch his arm after a few strides. "Luke!"

"I said we were-"

"_I_ never said we were finished."

His eyes flashed as usual with their impertinent flare. "Have you ever thought about the fact that it _might not matter what you say_?"

Multiple Personality Disorder much? "Did it ever matter with _you_?"

She waited for him to snap some perky comment back at her, but it never came. He paused, not looking at her, just thinking about some time past in which he only held the memory to. "No..." he finally whispered, face frowning slightly. "No, it never did." He made to leave.

"Luke-" she caught his sleeve. "Please... please, listen to me. Just this once."

He stopped.

"Please... I... I love Winnie. I would do-"

"You would _die_ for him, but you wouldn't do the simplest thing-"

"But it's _not_ simple," she could feel her chest constricting - beginning to close like it did whenever emotions got the best of her. "Please... you are so- you are so... so _blind_. Because you cannot see what is _there_. In front of you. You are so... _afraid_ to look, and view, and _see_ that you don't search past what you already know; because you are _so afraid of getting hurt_."

He flinched under her words, recoiling from them. She could feel some inner conflict inside him - dividing him like a pork roast on a platter. "No," he suddenly snapped - almost to himself rather than her. "No. I cannot. Previous obligations-"

"You're lying, and we both know it. You were lying when we came here; you didn't want to walk. You hate walking. For heaven's sake," Pulta tossed up her hands, biting her lip to stop choking up all her 'h's. "You _never_ walk with Winnie unless there is _absolutely nobody _to take him; and then you make it as short as possible. _Why the devil do you want to walk now?_"

"BECAUSE IT IS NOT RIGHT," he exploded, eyes flashing. She realized that he hadn't moved forward on the topic. "Because it is NOT RIGHT for the King's advisor to fall in love with some STUPID LASS that FELL from the GOD-FORSAKEN SKY, _JUST_ because she loves him." He glared at her. "JUST because he is so DAMN LONELY that he is a _complete, floundering IDIOT_. THERE. I can't because love is STUPID, and IRRATIONAL, and HAS NO DAMN PURPOSE EXCEPT TO HARNESS PEOPLE. And because the King's advisor CAN'T have that happen. BECAUSE IT IS NOT RIGHT."

"There," Pulta snapped. "There! You said it yourself! You love me, and I love you. And the one stupid thing-"

He whirled around, seizing her chin and yanking her painfully to where they were only a few inches apart. "I do _not_ love you." He thrust her away.

She stared at his retreating back as she stood propped against a tree, trying to find her voice, choked up though it was. "Liar," she whispered. "_Liar_! No, you're not a liar, you're a _coward_. A yeller-bellied, lily-livered coward if you can't stand up like the Luke Cahill I thought you were. Who _is_ the Luke Cahill I thought you were? Because now... I don't quite think that I-"

"STOP!"

The scream echoed through the forest, desperate and pleading. It brought silence with it; dead silence. Some small animal snapped a twig and it revibrated around in place of the scream, hollow and empty - so much more than voices.

"Stop," he finally whispered; it was pitifully soft. His hands were pressing on his temples as if he couldn't bear to hear another word. "Please... stop."

Pulta looked at the ground and closed her eyes - a vain, last-attempt to stop the tears from flowing. She waited for a heavy slap, or some verbal atrocity that seemed fitting to his outer character.

"Why...?" he managed once more. "Why...? It- it isn't... fitting. It... it makes no sense; _you_ make no sense. Nothing... works... with you. It should. It _ought_ to. You... you _ought_ to be gone right now; we ought not be here - both of us. And I... have..." he hesitated slightly. "... yelled... and hated... and we've argued. DAMMIT," he burst out. "WE'RE ARGUING NOW."

"...th-this is... is a t-t-errible argu-ment to b-be arguin-ng on..."

"Pulta..." he glanced at her and suddenly lost his edge. "Pulta... look..."

"... n-no, I see. Th-his is what they tried to- to protect me from." She looked up then, swallowing, a smile somehow finding its way laughingly onto her face; her eyes were dry. "Because... because I'm- I'm not from here. I'm from the future, five hundred years from now, in 2018. I live with my friend Rage in a dormatory and we both go to college at Ohio State University in America - if you were wondering. And... frankly... I'm a writer, and she's an inventor, part-whatever suits her mind at that moment. She... she built a time machine and of course, I got to be the test specimen..." Pulta half-coughed, half-laughed. "But... this is what- what they warned me of... I guess. I just think that I didn't think it was going to be - not because you loved me, but because-"

"Pulta..."

She paused, letting her face contort in silent pain as he slid his hands up and gently cupped her face in them.

"Pulta... look at me."

She forced her chin up a bit. Instantly, he felt her hurt. It made sense; all she wanted was what he'd wanted. For a long second he fought the emotions until the bitterness slid away. Leaving him vulnerable - like he knew it was wrong to be.

"You..." he finally breathed, "... you're the first person I've ever met... that _loved_ me; loves me. And... I knew after I fired you the first two times... you weren't ever going to come back - and that was that; but there you were... saving Winnie's life. I want to know..." he pushed a hand up, curling a strand of hair where it belonged - behind her ear. "... why you stayed; why you've put up with me when I know I was a terror. Because... when I saw that bear charging for you. I realized... that I couldn't lose you; that with losing you I would lose myself. I- I _want_ to love you... it's just... it's just that... I... don't know. Because nobody else ever did."

"But that wasn't the real you." She turned away into his hand, closing her eyes tight. "Because... I knew the real Luke Cahill was positively terrified of bugs; and because I know... I know the real Luke Cahill..." she paused voice dropping to below a whisper, "... isn't afraid to have a heart."

"This is stupid," he managed softly.

Pulta allotted a weak smile. "Not very stupid, considering I've known people who've gone on a blind date and then came back engaged two hours later."

They laughed softly together.

Pulling his hands away, Luke leaned them up on the tree above her head so his lips were brushing her cheek. A congruent smile slid across their faces at the adjoining silence. "Do you... want to go back?" He finally whispered. "To Rage, I mean; to... 2018."

A frown flickered gently across her face and her head slowly began to shake itself - looking like some distantly connected thing which obeyed none of her thoughts. Pulta half-smiled. Of course she would want to be home: everyone was there; Rage, her parents; Apple, Emmy, Pine, and all of them. She should want to be home. That was always what the heronines wanted; this was the time they burst into tears and collapsed in a distasteful, sobbing heap crying: 'I want to go home! Please, take me there! Let me go!'. But she couldn't. And her shaking grew more noted. "No," she whispered, swallowing. "No. No... I don't. So long as... as you love me."

"Marry me," he breathed. He trailed a hand down, locking it around her waist so she couldn't pull away as he kissed the corner of her up-turned mouth.

"Not for Winnie?" There was a last, careful glance through the blushing smile.

"For me," Luke whispered. "Even though I completely hate you for loving me so I fell in love with you; highly irregular."

She laughed, of course. Then tilted her head slightly to the side: "Luke?"

"Hm?"

"I've... I've never been kissed in my life. Don't you think... if we wait... it would seem so much more final? I just... thinking..."

He rolled his eyes, barely resting his nose on her cheek - so close to her lips though, that if either of them had leaned forward half an inch it would've been boquets of roses and internal fireworks for the rest of the day. "Pulta..." he hesitated. "... Cahill; you are the most _inept_, most _incompetent_ girl I've ever had the pleasure of meeting in my life..." he twisted upright, pressing his lips gently against her jaw so as to respect her wishes. "And unfortunately..." -another guilty gripe- "I love you for it."


	13. Chapter 13

**Oh no, this is Luke C. of the 39 Clues archive. Luke Cahill... although I think I would like Luke Castellan just as much from what I've heard of him if I have/had read PJO. :) You're the second person to ask that. Perhaps I ought to put a notice of that on the summary... XD If you're from the PJO archive, this is the 39 Clues' one...**

**DONE! HAHAHA! DONE! :D I **_**CAN**_** FINISH STORIES! I **_**CAN**_**! (The twentieth chapter of Puke was completed on March 10, 2012 at 7:32 PM. Put it in your date books, because another finished story isn't likely to be happening soon.)**

**Kittens: for you. :) {Because that review... just... *sniffles*}**

**-=-(*)-=-**

**Chapter Thirteen**

_The man crouched down, slightly in front of the young boy at his side. Peering at the illusions on the wall, he could make out the forms of five bodies; two men, and three figures lying down - none of them moving. His breath caught in his throat._

_The boy tried to whisper something but the man quickly clapped a hand over his mouth. The figures poked one of the shadows lying on the steps: _"A pity, isn't it?"

"Not all that much."

"He'll be furious when he discovered he escaped." _A shadow now kicked the same body. The man flinched, tightening his grip on the boy as the latter made a half-hearted rush up the steps._

"She must've been helping him. How did she even get in?"

"The top window, stupid." _The taller guard cuffed his fellow on the ear. _"Only question is, how did she get there?"

"She flew."

_Rambuncious laughter floated down to the duo hidden on the lower steps. The man could feel the boy fidgeting anxiously behind him - rightfully so. But the timing was all wrong. Holding his breath for periodic intervals, he let it out softly, making the least noise possible._

"Enough of that. Come on. The whole place is going to be searched from top to bottom - literally; if He finds the bodies if we going up, everybody's toast. Now that I think of it, if we put... whatwashisname - oh, right - Thoerin and Perre right outside the door, it'll look like there were five guards instead of three."

_The shadows hefted up two of the other shadows up. _"Yeah? And what about the woman? Take her too?"

"Nah," _the older guard snorted. _"Leave her. Makes it look like we're actually working around here. Besides - you actually want to pick _that_ up?"

_The younger guard mentioned something sheepish the man wasn't able to hear._

"Baby."

_Retorts and taunting resounded throughout the staircase as the light from the guards' candle faded, hiding the remaining body in shrouds of shadow. The man counted off fifteen seconds, then grabbed the boy's hand and they hurried up the stairs. She was lying on the steps barely above where the other bodies had been. Most of his breeches had been covered in blood and vomit, yet as they drew nearer, she twitched. Then eagerly pushed herself upright as they rounded the final bend. "Winnie!"_

_The boy threw himself into her arms, gripping her a bit tighter than necessary in his excitement. The man sighed gratefully. "Actress."_

_The woman looked over the boy's shoulder at him. "Be grateful I _am_ dramatic. They were discussing shooting me when I was found."_

_The man flinched. "Thank God. _Are_ you alright?"_

_"Never better. The dizziness went away after a while, but I figured it'd be safer to stay here than risk you being trigger-happy and shooting me."_

_"Trigger-happy?"_

_"You'd shoot too quickly." She gathered up the boy into her arms. "Whenever you're ready."_

_"Let's go."_

_They hurried up the stairs, the man in front - the woman slightly behind with the boy balanced precariously on her hip. It took one rotation in the stairwell to reach the first level; there was daylight at the end of the hallway before them - someone had left the door slightly open and a slimmer of light glowed on the stone floor. The woman plunged forward, then slowed, realizing the man wasn't following. "Luke?"_

_He ignored her, frowning ever so vaguely. Guards' voices sounded right behind the doors. They would be caught if anyone thought to look inside._

_"Luke!"_

_He snapped back to earth. "I can't."_

_"Can't-" she tightened her hold on the boy. "Can't what?"_

_"I can't go." He frowned again, deeper, causing a furrow to build between his eyebrows as he glanced back towards the stairs - and up. "I can't... leave them."_

_There was complete silence in the hallway for one second... two... three as they silently studied each other's faces. Finally the woman straightened, raising her head just the slightest. "We have to hurry."_

_"No. There is not 'we'. I. _I_ am going-"_

_The woman shot him The Look. "Don't even."_

_"It's too dangerous."_

_The woman grinned. "I laugh in the face of danger," pressing forward, she dodged his outstretched arms and started on the stairs. "Hahahaha."_

_"Silla..."_

_"I hate that name. Stop calling me that."_

_"Silla. Silly. It fits you perfectly." The man had caught up to her, barreling in on the outside._

_"Does _not_."_

_"It would be extremely childish to say-" the man shot a glance at the boy who was being jostled up and down looked a bit too sick to care about the conversation. "-'_does too_'."_

_They reached the top landing. Two guards were posted at the door, and true to their job, they quickly advanced. The object promptly dispatched them, and it took less time than a quarter of a minute for Luke to yank the key from a dead guard and slip inside the door._

_The woman peered after him; the boy wriggled away from her and hung near the door, watching._

_A scowl accompanied his sister's composure as she saw him. "_Luke_."_

_"There isn't much time."_

_Both individuals seemed to be nervously uncomfortable. His sister, though, hid behind a wall of respective placidity, folding up the book she had been reading and neatly twining her feet together with the airs of a princess. "There's all the time in the world to read a book and dodge crude looks. And you, sir-"_

_Luke looked like he was going to explode. "_Honestly_. Are _all_ the Ekats going to come up with some version of that stupid saying-?"_

_"It isn't stupid!" His sister bounced to her feet, taking care to place the book down so it wouldn't be hurt if she accidentally dropped it._

_"_Is_ stupid. And like I said, there isn't much time. Come on."_

_She flushed an angry red while glancing hurriedly at the loveable books around her. "To leave? Why?"_

_"Because that BAST-"_

_"_Luke. Katherine._" The woman dared to interfere and stuck her head in the room. "They're coming?"_

_The man whirled on his sister. "Coming or not?"_

_She hesitated. "Why?"_

_"Why do you think?"_

_They glared at each other until three shots were heard in rapid succession in the hallway along with the whistles of arrows. The man dismissed his sister quickly with a wave of the hand and darted out into the hallway. Forget her. She could stay if she liked. The woman in the hallway made a show of blowing off the barrel of the gun and sticking it back in her pocket; the boy had his arms crossed right behind her. With an indignant look, he turned to the man. "I can shoot too, can't I, Papa?"_

_"Heaven's sake no."_

_The boy developed a stern pout._

_"No. And that's the end of it. Sill-"_

_"Don't even start again."_

_The man still managed to raise an eyebrow with a quirky grin. "We can't go down."_

_"Right, you heard them. We came too early, actually. They'll find us starting up while heading up to search down."_

_"You came in by the window?" It was a question, rather than an assertive statement._

_"By a couple loose bricks, actually. But if they know it's open, it's probably open."_

_"Good point-"_

_They stopped the conversation to suddenly discover arguing behind them. The boy had his hands on his hips with his eyes flashing fire while glaring up at the man's sister. "You're nothing but a two-headed, bloody git off the backside of a warthog!"_

_"Really?" She crossed her arms. "And you're nothing but a periwinkle on the beak of a ibis!"_

_"Oh yeah? You're a frog's liver; a dung-eyed fossil fit for nothing but dog fodder!"_

_"Useless, wart-riddled, clumsy-fingered road-kill!"_

_"Meaty, fat-nosed, _illiterate _codswallop!"_

_His sister's eyes flashed and her hand flung itself out. Immediately, there was the echo of the object's hammer clicking back into place through the hallway. Everyone stopped dead - including the hand._

_"You touch him," the woman whispered. "I blow your brains into the middle of next week. Literally."_

_"Enough." The man snarled. "Put that down."_

_"No." The woman adjusted her grip, centering the bead on his sister. "Either you come with us, or get back in your prison and lock the door - and argue all you want. But you do _not_ touch my son."_

_The dramatic moment held. Then slowly - ever so slowly - his sister's hand slid back down to her side. "You'd do it."_

_"I wouldn't hesitate."_

_The man's foot started tapping relentlessly on the foor. "Done with the life-threats yet?"_

_His sister glanced at him. "Decently. I think the point got across well enough."_

_"Better have." The woman pocketed the object and gently scooped the boy up into her arms again. "I hope."_

_"Are you coming?"_

_"Sure. In fact, I'm just _dying_ to stir up some asinine guard-heads for a cat-liver, frog-eye and carrot stew tomorrow morning since I'm missing plenty of brains on hand around me. Let's have at it, shall we?"_


	14. Chapter 14

**Warning: Long, slightly important A/N here... **

**I 'made up' the name Robby Benson, but I have a feeling that there IS someone famous by that name that I completely forgot about. Help? o_O**

**I feel so bad that this chapter is so yawn-inducing. All your reviews were amazing, and you're all excited for the next chapter and I turn out this. o.o Nobody shot... nobody killed... no death-threats... except for the end; I talk about slightly - maybe - interesting topics such as the (recent) history of England, Will and Kate's marriage, Diana; the entire boring lineage of English Kings/queens. Basically that. If you're a history freak, you might kill me for any mistakes I make, of which I hope are few; and if you're not, kill me for even putting this in here. Either way, in the grand scheme of things, Luke is questioning if I really am from the future and I 'prove' myself. Then Rage /finally/ manages to push the button and you can skip to the second section and read it from there. /is attempting to save her readers time**

**:'( No telling, Rage, but in this part of the story, I kinda think I made you the antagonist. :''''( PLEASE don't be mad with me. It's just... there needs to be an antagonist somewhere to make it interesting, and I really didn't want my parents in this... o.o**

**Foulden Delvious? Golden Delicious? Apples? Remind you of anything? XD**

**Muse, you are the receiver of this dedication; thank you for always pushing me to do my best. Besides, you like history, right? ;)**

**-=-(*)-=-**

**Chapter Fourteen**

"So, as a maid... you don't knock, and as a fiancée, you do?"

Pulta flushed. "But if I always knocked and then didn't as a fiancée, you'd also find that incredibly annoying, wouldn't you?"

He shrugged condescendingly while going back to his paperwork, and she turned to close the door quietly behind her. Once it shut, she made her way over to to his desk where she looped her arms gently around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder.

Luke set his pen down and glanced at her. "I never get anything done when you're in the room."

She smiled sheepishly into his tunic. "Sorry. If it's any help, I'm going to bed now."

"How was Winn- Winthrop?"

"There isn't anything bad about nicknames."

"His name is _Winthrop_."

She gave him a rather disblieving gaze of amusement and amazement he dubbed 'The Look' before shaking her head and turning away. "Whatever you say. He was fine. His Latin is better than mine anyway."

Luke rolled his eyes. "And am I supposed to be surprised...?"

"No. Not unless you want to be."

He snorted.

Pulta let him go with a parting kiss on the cheek. "Good night."

"Pulta, wait." Luke started up. "You promised."

She flushed. "I did nothing of the kind."

"Liar."

Giving him a venemous look, she shook her head. "You'd go bananas."

He ignored the unknown word and quickly caught up to her so she was unable to depart. "I asked."

"Too dangerous."

"Please?" He slipped closer, hoping that just maybe... for a moment- but she slipped a hand over her mouth, causing her voice to be rather stiffled.

"I can't. If... if something happens, it'll all be my fault."

"I have a right to know."

A quirkish smile showed behind her hand. "Nice try. No... you don't."

He crimped an eyebrow.

"No."

"And if-"

"No."

"I command-"

"No."

"Five sugar-"

"No."

He crossed his arms and glared at her. "_What then_?"

Standing on her toes, she wrapped her arms around his neck and closed her eyes. "I can't let you get hurt."

His lips trailed down the side of her face, gently stopping below her cheekbone. "I promise?"

"So says everyone." But she curled in his embrace, allowing him to rest his chin on her hair.

"Purely out of curiosity." He felt her hesitate. "I just... wish to know."

"On my life, you will never tell a soul."

"Forever-never."

"On my life."

"Of course."

She pushed away, a slightly beleaguered look on her face. "Honestly, you just won't 'believe' that I'm from the future?"

"You said you studied history."

"Everyone does. You study history now, don't you? People have always studied history. I'll bet if - mind the 'if' there - the Big Bang actually occurred and man really walked out of the water the first thing he did was record that history in stone and teach it to his kids. History is timeless."

Luke stared at her.

"Ri-_ight_. Sorry. Blame Darwin." She plopped down on one side of the couch and gestured dramatically to the other end. "What do you want to know?"

He raised an eyebrow, sitting down primly - like she _ought_ to have sat. "The Americas. What happens to them?"

Pulta narrowed an eye and scrutinized him.

"Honestly! You said to ask!"

"Funny you pick that thing first..."

"I wanted to know. Now start talking, will you?"

"Out of all the history in the world - maybe you could've asked what the history of Sri Lanka is even though I have no idea whatsoever - you had to ask _that_."

"Fine. Stop glaring at me like that. What happens to England?"

"Well... there's an enormous volcanic eruption and it's - quite literally - blown off the face of the planet. Only a piece of Ireland survived, and that's surrounded by a bunch of water like Iceland, and it doesn't look as pretty now."

He stared at her.

"Joking. Really."

His eyes flashed. "Pult_a_..."

"You want to know what really happens to England?"

"Enough jokes."

She snorted, pulling her knees up to her chest and examining the dress material as if there would be an earthquake at that moment. "Alright... I... don't know all that much-"

"_Who takes the throne after Henry?_"

Pulta thought quickly for a moment. "Edward the sixth - he dies within two years, or something. Bloody Mary. Then Elizabeth - Liz the First."

"Edward?"

"I don't think he's been born yet. But then things start to pick up, and there are a bunch of Georges - first, second, third - Edward the fourth, and it narrows down to Victoria eventually. Since none of his brothers had kids."

"When's that?"

"Eighteen something. Early eighteen hundreds, since it was the Industrial Revolution..."

"And..." He raised an eyebrow and she could feel his impatience eating at her.

"And then she married a cousin-"

"Marries."

They stared at each other, not quite knowing how to annull the unexpected development of time passages.

"It doesn't matter. She married/marries a cousin - Prince Albert, and then they had a bunch of kids." Pulta grinned. "Then as they all got married, they discovered there was hemophilia in their lines."

Luke raised an eyebrow again. "What?"

"It's a disease in your genes; when you get cut, it won't stop bleeding. If you bruise yourself, you can die from blood-loss."

"Interesting."

Pulta reveled in the fact genes had been the one thing she'd actually comprehended and enjoyed in Biology. "Two or three daughters were carriers, actually; they carried it, but didn't have to worry about bleeding to death. Eventually, the gene reappeared through Russia's royal lines and through that, a monk named Rasputin-"

"Wait," Luke held up a hand. "I thought we were talking about England."

"But this is _interesting_." Pulta realized she sounded like her mother when she was yammering on about different colors of dishcloths. "Okay, back to England. Granted, but can I finish?"

He shrugged, which she assumed meant he was intrigued enough that England could wait.

"Rasputin... Rasputin... oh, right. So Rasputin became Nicolas' - czar of Russia's - right-hand advisor, and all that and everyone felt he was influencing Nick to make bad decisions; and all because of the Czarina and Alexis. So then a bunch of Nicolas' supporters had a party, and they poisoned Rasputin and threw him into the Neva River. But then Russia broke up anyway, and shot the entire family dead."

Luke raised an eyebrow. "Wow."

"Right. Anyway, that's one of the only things I've found incredibly interesting in Russian history."

"England."

"Right." Pulta paused. "Victoria... Victoria... Her son, Edward the seventh became king and ruled after her. Then George the fifth, I think. Edward the eighth... and then... Oh, George the sixth. Then came Elizabeth the second; she had a son, Charles, who married the prettiest-"

"Subjugate."

Pulta shot him a glare. "_-the prettiest lady _I've ever heard about; she was an Earl's daughter and then a schoolteacher. A real _princess_. Not just one dressed up in rich clothes. And they had two sons before they got divorced and she died in a car crash: William and Henry - who everybody calls Will and Harry, and _Will_ married Kate a few years back. So... anyway. There's your lineage so far. Or most of it anyway. I can't remember the sixes and fives. It would be helpful if they named their children something other than Charles, and Henry, and William."

"Such as Balthazar the third, or Duchingete the fifth?"

She blinked. "On second thought..."

Luke shrugged, grinning slightly. "Enough. They are overused though..." They were silent for a minute, chewing on all the information until he nodded. "So... whatever happens to the Americas? Who rules them?"

Pulta looked at him for a long moment. "Nobody rules them."

"What do you mean? They're uninhabitable?"

"No... there isn't a king. There's a president. But the people rule themselves. It's a free land."

Luke frowned. "But then it's completely lawless. Everybody's constantly stealing everything. Nobody wants to live like that."

Pulta grinned. "Ha. Close, but not quite. See, the President passes the laws made by Congress; Congress makes the laws - supposedly; I've never seen such a bunch of butt-sitters in my life: talkers, they do nothing - and the Supreme Court keeps everything in line. If you're wronged, you can sue - or take someone to court. Then a judge and a jury decides who's right, and who's wrong. You're innocent until proven guilty. Technically. So that's how things are run - mostly. It's complicated. See, there are fifty states; each one has a governor. Then the states are set up into cities, and each city has a mayor."

"Like lords and knights."

"Right. Kind of. England did rule us - for a while. Then you decided to-"

"Not 'me'."

She rolled her eyes. "Sorry. Then _they_ decided to tax us without representation in Parliment. After that, we went to war - we won. We set up the government - etc."

Luke cocked his head, thinking. "Interesting..."

"Not a word."

A smile twitched on his mouth as he returned her glance. "Not one."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

Pulta flinched. "Does that quell your disbelief?"

"Sure."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Well, it's not quite like you could make up five Georges, and then complain about how many names there are."

"Good point," she smiled, letting her knees go to their proper position where they hung over the edge of the couch with her feet firmly on the floor. "Can I go to bed now?"

He opened his arms and she scooted over the couch to lean against him; smiling as he curled around her. "Good night. Sleep well."

"I will," she pushed herself up. "And don't let the bugs bite, silly."

"Ha." Luke tweaked her nose. "Go on."

"Right." She sat up again as a funny look slid over her face. "L-"

She disappeared.

**-=-(*)-=-**

"LAPULTA JANIMA RAGWRINE! _YOU_- YOU- **YOU**-"

Pulta blinked, shaking her head to attempt assisting her eyes with adjusting to the pitch-black room. "Rage?"

"YOU IMBECILE! YOU COULD'VE GOTTEN YOURSELF KILLED!"

"Wait, imbecile? Killed? Is Robby Benson in this room? Because he really needs a talking-to."

"NO, ESTUPIDO! I'M TALKING TO YOU!" The gray-ish blob with a head leaped forward and Pulta winced as hands gripped vice-like on her shoulders and shook her back and forth. "HOW LONG WERE YOU THERE?"

"Do you want me to have eardrums to answer your questions?"

Rage relinquished her grip, but Pulta could feel her deadly glare even through the night. "What happened now?"

She paused, trying to judge her reaction. "Rage... I need to go home."

"This IS your home. Now get up there and go to bed."

Pulta reached out her arms and found Rage - stiff as a freshly ironed shirt - and hugged her. "You're the best twinsie I've ever, and I ever will. But... I need to go home. He needs me."

"No. I won't let you."

"You have to. Besides, my wedding's in three weeks."

The gray blob turned down two shades of color and became a white blob - not so far akin to a floating ghost-orb. "No," Rage choked. "This is _your_ time, and _your_ home, and you're staying here. You have the stupid Biology test in the morning! For heaven's sake, you have your life HERE."

"And he's there." Pulta squeezed her twinsie's hands. "Can you bring them to meet him?"

"Who?"

"My parents, silly."

"Why? It's not like they're going to disagree. They ought to be plenty happy with the amount of clothing that's covering you."

Pulta flushed. "Please-?"

"No. I won't. And I'm not coming to any wedding. You're not getting married. And _not_ to him."

Pulta crossed her arms, aghast. "You still want me with Foulden Delvious, don't you! Rage von Starling-"

"He's good-"

"No!"

"And sensible-"

"_No!_"

"And has good grades-"

"NO!"

"He's an average guy!" Rage finally screamed. "Fine! I said it! He's AVERAGE. A-V-E-R-A-G-E. He wears glasses, laughs like a maniac, and MOST IMPORTANTLY, he is NOT IN THE PAST 500 YEARS!"

"Do you care _anything_ about me? He _loves_ me! Luke **loves** me!"

"So would Ledi if you actually tried him out!"

"But I don't _want_ to try him out! I don't want to change boys like I'm changing clothes!"

Rage shot her a glance. "You're not."

"YES, I WOULD BE THEN! AND I WON'T!"

"FINE," Rage exploded. "FINE. Go off and MARRY him for all I care! Go on, PUSH THE BUTTON! But let me tell you this: I'm NOT going to be pushing it again to bring you back. If you love him, go on; run off. And keep in mind that we had DREAMS. Dreams of US, WRITING; TOGETHER. In YELLOWSTONE, AND MONTANA, AND FLORIDA! And you BLEW THEM AWAY because YOU LOVED-HIM-MORE. GoodBYE. And good _RIDDANCE_!" The blob turned away, stalking off into the kitchen.

Pulta listened to her walking around, slapping a bottle of juice that had been sitting on the counter since the futuristic 'past week' down so that the plastic bottom crinkled. The refrigerator door slammed, along with a wooden cabinet.

Yet there was no choice.

Grabbing a piece of paper, Lapulta snatched up the nearest pen and quickly scribbled her message while posting it near the red button. Her hand hovered over the later, choosing - hesitating. But there was still no choice. She pushed it.

**-=-(*)-=-**

Luke was standing by the couch. His eyes scanned her down, immediately seeing whatever turmoil was pounding inside her at that moment. She stumbled forward into his embrace, forcing the tears not to come while managing to thank her lucky stars she'd been thinking with decent timing; she'd probably only missed about a few seconds.

"Good God... what happened?"

"Time," she choked. "Rage..." Pulta swallowed, sucking air back and forth - brutally aware of the stinging pain that came with each gasp. "They... they don't-"

"Don't stay," he slid his hands up, cupping her face in them. "I don't want you here if you're not happy."

"But I _am_ happy," she swallowed again. "I'm just... unhappy _because_ I'm happy."

Luke raised an eyebrow.

"No-" she choked on her mixture of laughter and tears. "No- it's just... just... They don't- _see_."

"Who is 'they'?"

"Rage... my friends. My parents: I'm getting them to meet you somehow."

He kissed her cheek, tightening his grip around her. "They will understand."

It was her turn to raise an eyebrow, forcing a watery smile on her face. "And how do you know that?"

"Because they always do. They can't not. And then they'll only be left wishing they had this."

"Right," she managed a laugh. "Right. An insane wife, a headstrong husband and a wild son." She then gently touched her fingertips to her lips and pressed them gently on his, sniffing back whatever uncomplying tears were left. "I love you."

"As do I." He leaned forward, kissing her forehead. "Off to bed now."

"Good night."

"Don't let the bugs bite."

She managed a giggle.


	15. Chapter 15

**Maybe Silla is Pulta... maybe she isn't. xD Maybe this story is terrible enough it doesn't have a happy ending. *o* Oh... the suspense... the suspense... :D Don't worry, you'll find out soon enough. In four italic chapters, actually. :)**

**WARNING: Next two paragraphs are random and contain no meaning whatsoever to Puke.**

**Unknown to myself, is there a reason why drabbles are so popular? I don't understand it. It boggles my mind. I cannot fathom how writing something about something that has been written about a bazillion times before in twenty words or less garners over 100 reviews in a matter of an insanely short number of chapters. If Carolyn Meyer only wrote like that, people would FINALLY see her for the awesome person she is. o.o (*hint,hint: GO READ 'IN MOZART'S SHADOW'*)**

**There is a story called **_**Losing It**_**, that I would like those who have the procrastination time on their hands, to try and glance at. It has six chapters and four reviews the last time I checked; and we all know... *cough,cough* ... that it's because there isn't a sign in the summary that says: IAMY PLZ REVIW4MEEE!1!11 :) I truly believe that the author deserves more than she is getting, as it's her first fanfic and she's willing to learn with CC. Could a few people possibly glance at it and help her out?**

**(-because I have no idea how to sign this off other than the fact that the dedication goes to A29:) I'm writing a paranormal love story one-shot. I like it very much. It is (maybe) original - since I have never even read a Paranormal Love Story and don't know what is cliche - and interesting. I am excited to finish it, but am not quite sure if I will. I am frightened of a NaNo month that is more than half a year off.**

**o.o**

**-=-(*)-=-**

**Chapter Fifteen**

_One revolution... one and a half revolutions..._

_The woman was firmly aware of her husband's sister panting beside her to the inside as well as the devious glances she was shooting at her. "An-any reason why you picked- to w-wear that?"_

_"It's comfortable."_

_"Dis-gusting."_

_The woman tightened her grip on the boy and he buried his rather green face in her neck, mouthing something - most likely not complimentary to his aunt. "I'm not panting like you, am I?"_

_"Fatigue is- not meas-sured by the amount of p-pants you give p-per minute, but- the-"_

_The woman caught her husband looking over his shoulder with a gaze that clearly read: _To argue with her is to evoke the wrath of Hercules. _She ignored him. "How intresting... But that doesn't stop the fact I'm six months with child and carrying another."_

_The glare deepened. "You are not a Cahill, and you shall _never_ be. Do not mock me!"_

_"KATHERINE." The man's scowl could peirce the toughest hide._

_His sister shrank away, glare losing its venom._

_"My kindness was not obligatory."_

_"You are not kind."_

_"_Illiterate codswallop,_" the boy muttered into the woman's shoulder._

_"Then stay. We shall take our leave. Good day to you." His eyes flickered over to the woman and instantly changed context. She followed him and they hurried again up the steps, leaving his sister staring at them._

_"Fine," she hissed. "But you are a fool."_

_The man turned. "Say what you like; but hatred for them is off limits."_

_His sister snorted. "Really. And I suppose if I called either of you names, Master Winthrop would kick my shin."_

_The boy rose slightly from his place against the woman's shoulder - coloring improved since they had paused all motion - and stuck out his tongue at her._

_Her eyes flashed, but she kept her cool._

_"Hopefully." The man glanced at his son. "You have my permission whenever that happens, Winnie."_

_"Coercer."_

_"Compliments are overrated."_

_She gritted her teeth. "That was _not_ a compliment."_

_"I know."_

_There was a confused pause as they started up the stairs again, and then she flushed, shooting another glare at him. "I hate you."_

_"You're welcome."_

_They reached the top step, containing no guards - and no key - but omnious thumps. The man led them around the side then, counting the steps to the approximate place where the lord had led him only a few hours before. Kneeling down, he kicked the loose stone inward which garnered the attention of the inmate._

_"WHO IS THERE?"_

_His sister breathed a sigh of relief. "I told you I'd come."_

_"_We_," the man snarled quickly, shooting a glance at her. "We."_

_"Of course," she returned the glare as if he were utterly repulsive. "We."_

_"Luke," the voice inside the room spat. "And why did _you_ arrive?"_

_"Because Katherine would have died in thirty seconds without me. We don't have much time. You've been hitting on the wrong wall, anyway. This one is hollow."_

_"So is the one adjoining the hallway: so are all of them. They just have exits to the outside."_

_The sister buried her face in her hands. "Please, do not tell me that you have windows in your room."_

_"Three of them. One's broken."_

_The woman watched her husband and his sister stare at each other in despair. "Thomas, you dunce."_

_"Well, forgive me for saying, but under each window are a bunch of sharp pikes. I didn't really feel desperate enough to throw myself out the window and impale all my innards."_

_"He knew we'd hear about the windows at some time or other." The man gritted his teeth. "Curse him..."_

_"Curse yourself, oh billiant one. I thought your were the genius of this-"_

_"SHUT UP." The man snarled. "Let me think, wretch."_

_"I'm no-"_

_"Quiet!" The person inside the room snapped. "They're coming. Whatever you do, do it quick."_

_The man turned to his wife and she quickly confirmed his brother's assumption with a nod._

_"Thomas?"_

_The voice was positively grumpy. "What."_

_"I want you to knock this wall in - right above where the brick is on the floor."_

_"Wait!" Her sister scrambled to her feet. "Thomas, NO. STOP!"_

_The man stared at her, then enlightenment slid over to horror. "Dammitthewall." The woman left her son and grabbed his arm, pulling him, but only dragging herself closer. He curled around her, only too aware of the plantive scream coming from his sister. The floor beneath them shuddered as a muscular body threw himself again and again against the wall, instructions overriding all pain, aches and exhaustion. Dust and bits of stone trickled down; a brick gave, then another, and another..._


	16. Chapter 16

**Ah... the chapter you have been waiting for, Rose... ;D**

**Firstly, Did you people **_**actually**_** think that chapter twelve was long? Really? Because then your brains are going to be blown away by the length of this chapter; no lie. **_**AND**_** I split it into two parts! XD Good luck!**

**Secondly, as you read the first six paragraphs of this chapter, you will fully understand what I was thinking as I was writing this:**

**Complete, and utter denial.**

**Which, frankly, made it rather difficult to finish this chapter. I got stuck on the second part, unfortunately. I did it, and I made it through, but it was quite a wonderment to me. I decided that all I was going to do was **_**do it**_**. And if you teens can't stand a nice kiss in there after the 'I do's, then you need to fall in love with a book character and start dreaming. Besides, this is rated T. (I must have reminded myself about that fifteen times) the people who are reading this **_**can**_** enjoy a kiss. You are not exactly five-year-olds who's eyes need to be covered... o.o ;)**

**Dedicatee: Apple (Heh heh... sorry about my hubby in there. ^_^)**

**-=-(*)-=-**

**Chapter Sixteen**

"I can't. I can't. I can't. I can't do this. This is insane. Please," Pulta breath desperately caught in her throat. "Get me out of this."

"Oh 'ush."

"Please! What if I'm wrong? What if he doesn't love me? What if something happens? I'm going to be clumsy. I'll ruin the dress. I do something stupid. He'll hate me. This is impossible. Please, tell him I can't. I've changed my mind. I'm going back."

"C'ild, _silence_. Now, sit still n' _'old up yer arms._"

"I can't!" Pulta crossed the room to avoid the maid, fiddling frantically for the fifth time with the lace curtains. "I can't. I was wrong. I can't marry. I'm twenty. It's too much; Winnie's too much. I can't take care of a child. I don't know what to do. I don't even know how to change a stupid nappy. I'm useless. At least one of the ladies of the court-"

"_Pulta Ca'ill_, _get over 'ere_!"

She unwillingly submitted to Mary's outstretched arms as the woman's fingers dug deftly into her damp tresses and broke them into six parts. "But the ladies of the court probably already know what to do. It isn't fair. I don't. I'll bungle something completely; I'll make an utter fool of myself. Watch. And I don't even know how to dance!"

Mary ignored her, wrapping the already finished braids into two buns on either side of her head. She hummed an Irish tune.

"Mary?"

The woman continued humming, beginning to violently thrust hairpins to hold the buns in.

"Mary?"

"Hm, lass?"

"What's wrong with me?"

"Not'ns w'ong wi' ye, lass."

Pulta looked over her shoulder, forcing Mary to pause with the reckless hair-pinning. "Yes, there is. I wouldn't be marrying him if there wasn't."

Mary heaved an enormous sigh. "Turn 'round, lass. Ye need yer 'air done."

"No. I don't want it-"

"Yes, ye do. Now 'urn 'round." The woman sniffed, beginning on the other side of Pulta's head with the pins. "I'm a'right glad to see 'im marry'n off. 'e needs a woman to 'et his 'ead on 'is s'oulders straig't. 'N li'l Winnie needs a mot'er in 'is life too. Stand up straig't, milady."

Pulta flinched as a pin scrapped her scalp. "But I'm frightened."

"'taint noth'n to be frig'tened of. 'e's noth'n but a pussycat inside that tom."

"I know it," she whispered. "But... I don't know myself as well as I know him. _Can_ I do that?"

"'course. 'ere's yer dr'ss, milady."

Pulta flinched at the touch of the satin against her skin as Mary slid it down over her head. She solemnly reminded herself that she had picked it out herself; the tailor had made it weeks before. It was beautiful; the arms, white lace that slowly expanded until when it hit her wrists, her hands became lost in its multiple, graceful folds. The bodice was formed in a broken V that slipped gently over her shoulders and closed around her neck. It was laced with satin strings in front and the skirt flowed down till the cloth changed to white silk that trailed to her toes.

Mary stepped back, crossed her arms and smiled at her creation. "Ye pick'd well, milady."

Pulta stared at the mirror, willing herself to recognize the released façade that struggled to assert itself in her reflection. There was nothing. Not nothing - she did somehow look pretty. But... she was missing something. "Mary."

"Ye sti'l 'ave to 'urry, milady. 'ah wan'ed to talk to ye, ye know."

"Am... am I supposed to feel like this? Should I? Because then it might be a good thing-"

Mary stepped forward and gently motioned for Pulta to turn. The girl obliged her, watching the skirt in the mirror lift a few half-inches off the ground. "Ye look like a vis'on, milady. Trust me."

"I don't want to look like a vision, I just want him to love me."

"'ny man would love ye if 'e's got the gumption."

"Mary..." Pulta paused in her plea as she and Mary whirled towards the door. Someone tripped over a pair of boots from where they had most likely been hiding in the closet.

Taking charge, Mary scooped up a large traveling cloak from where it had been laying on the couch and draped it over her lady's shoulders, then grabbed a heavy book and advanced towards the door with it like she was going to pummel the first thing she saw moving. And then it clattered noisily to the floor. "Luke Ca'ill! Yer jus' as bad a' yer son ye is! Snea'n in on a bride! Out with ye! Get on with i'!"

Pulta fumbled with the cloak's latch and then hurried to the entranceway. Luke had a purely guilty look on his face that instantly faded when she appeared - and she couldn't help the spark of pleasure that kindled. "Can we... can we talk - alone, Mary?"

"_Milady_!" Mary protested.

"For a moment," she whispered. "Not all that long."

Luke shrugged. "I'm killing time."

Pulta fought a smile at that literal thought and glanced at Mary who was frantically wringing her hands. "Oh... alri'g. But on'y a mom'nt now, ye hear? Tradi'ons, milady. Tradi'ons." She huffed out the door, squeezing between Luke and the extra pairs of boots placed in the hallway. The door clicked merrily shut then, leaving them alone.

Luke winked at her. "Traditions."

Pulta managed a smile, not really replying.

He cocked his head, frowning. "Are you all right?"

"No... no. Not really."

He curled around her, raising a curious eyebrow at the cloak she wore that hid the dress. "Can I peek?"

"No," but she pressed into his arms. "Later."

They stood that way for an un-counted amount of minutes; listening to the hallway's take of each other's breathing. Luke finally pushed her away gently. "What's wrong?"

Pulta flinched. "I'm... frightened."

"What's to be frightened of?"

"It's... It's... the people... in my world... you know; they don't... they don't think of marriages as... marriages. They just... marry, and if you don't like them, you divorce them... marry another... They don't care at all; vows mean nothing to them. I think..." she hesitated, laughing a little at the ground. "I think... it just hit me. I'm... I'm _marrying_ somebody. I am giving myself for life; until death do us part. And I think... I'm frightened that perhaps-" she could feel Luke's eyes on her, watching. "-I can't keep it."

He took her hand, leading her into the sitting room where they paused in front of the window. "And why is that?"

"Because that's all I've ever known. Because most of the people who've been around me; that's all they think - with the exception of my parents. They just... give up... give in. It's... too much for them, and they don't fight through it. That's what I'm frightened of, I think: frightened of Winnie, of life... Terrified of living; terrified..." Pulta curled into his arms, laughing softly. "... terrified of you, I think. Terrified of what might happen to us if I didn't choose right - if I said 'yes' and didn't truly mean it; I think I do, but I don't know. How can I know?"

Hugging her, Luke gently kissed her cheek. "I believe... the very fact that you _are_ worried about it, leaves less doubt."

"You're cutting corners."

"Doesn't the world cut corners around the sun?"

Pulta raised a eyebrow, caught by surprise. "You believe him?"

"My father believed him - and if anyone knew he was right, it was him." Luke tilted his head slightly, a smile beginning to play about his lips. "Shall I tell you a secret?"

"Secrets are overrated."

That made him laugh. He pecked her cheek with a mischievous glint in his eye. "I'm terrified."

"Luke Cahill?" Pulta teased gently. "Frightened?"

"No comments, please."

"But it's ever so much better if you're frightened with someone." Pulta laid her head against his neck and closed her eyes, feeling much more relaxed than she had before.

"True, that. I think the main reason I snuck in here was to find out if you were as frightened as I am."

"And what was your excuse?"

He shrugged sheepishly. "Boots. I did need a different pair, anyway."

"Boots..." Pulta smiled, shaking her head. "You're a terrible liar."

He shot her a look.

"My apologies." They ditched that conversation, turning instead to comment on the weather, the sun - a lone cloud passing by; anything to keep the conversation going. Mary could be heard in the room alongside them - Winnie's - with hint of stomping, and banging objects down in their proper place harder than necessary. Each moment that passed weighted down hard on their heads and made them count their precious seconds until Mary would walk into the room and demand privacy with the bride.

"There's a ball tonight," Luke finally murmured. They had faced the window, watching the sun on its course across the sky. "You'll like it, I think."

"I can't dance," Pulta whispered guiltily.

Nothing dampened his mood. "I'll teach you. I taught Jane."

"Jane. Really?"

"Of course. You'll have plenty of company there too if you want to talk; if you're lucky, you might get into a clique somewhere."

Pulta raised an eyebrow. "Do I look like someone who belongs in a clique?"

"Never mind then," but he grinned. "Mary's in the hallway now."

"Perhaps you ought to hide in the closet again."

They gave each other subsequent, amused looks.

He sighed as the door opened. "Good luck."

"Goodness sakes, for what?"

His voice dropped into a whisper. "_From Mar_- Oh, there you are. Perfect timing."

Mary swooshed into the room, her skirt violently swinging back and forth like a battalion of the navy battling couches and desk chairs. "Out. N'w."

"Mary..."

"OUT. Ye've desecra'd enoug' tim' wi'h t'e lass. OUT. Go fi'ur yer own pla's."

The Lord Cahill muttered something under his breath that sounded like: "... _if James was as dedicated as you..._" Mary untied the apron around her waist, threateningly bunched it up and snapped it dangerously close to Luke's ear. He yelped and bounced away. "Watch it!"

"Wa'ch yerself, milord! Out with ye!"

He scuttled away, muttering harmless intonations under his breath.

**-=-(*)-=-**

It was all... spotless.

Pulta gulped, dutifully aware of the mud dab on the bottom of her left shoe - which was technically invisible, but seemed to weigh on her with unerring persecution. The pews to her right and left seemed just-dusted; spotless, of course. The floor had been swept. Scented candles burned along the windowsills; there were five on each side of the church, not including the two on either side of the front doors. The windows themselves had been cut into tiny panes, causing the twilight sun to split into a million little pieces and shatter itself around her among the smell of elder berries and flowers.

She fingered the lace's folds about her hands. She hadn't tripped yet on the bottom hem; she was _going to_ if she kept her mind wandering like it was. Hesitantly, she focused her gaze on Luke. He was ram-rod straight - nothing unusual; wearing something tight and dark that made him look like he was suffocating. He looked like Winthrop... in an older... odd way... She averted her gaze downward before he could catch her watching him and stared closely at the floor again.

She watched her skirt's half-inch of extra cloth fold under the dress her petticoats were pushing out. It rustled, whispering of untold things Mary had filled her head with for the past hour and a half; things she had never permitted herself to think of, and had never said in her life for fear she would begin throwing them about carelessly, like a whore of some kind.

Right. A _real_ whore.

The breathing in the hollow room stuck to her ears as if they were filled with fly-trap paper. The priest, or rector, or cleric - she didn't quite know which - had a loud, raspy sort of breath, as if he could never get enough of the musty, church air. Luke's was perfectly steady. Hers was silent. She wouldn't have even known she was breathing if she hadn't been the one taking the breaths; only her heart pounding reverberated in her ears. It was a pity she didn't just... collapse on the ground. Then maybe they'd get this done with sooner.

But unfortunately, her feet wouldn't; even if she had wanted to purposely sink to the floor. Pulta tilted her head slightly up just so much so she could see the tips of Luke's shoes. She almost giggled. His right foot was insouciantly shaking. She did the same thing in her subconscious mind sometimes out of nervousness.

Luke Cahill. _Frightened_. Somehow the thought made her feel a bit better. She wasn't the only one in this.

After the length of aisle, there was a small, final step up. A hand appeared in her lowered range of vision, and after a split-second of wild pondering, she realized it was his. She took it immediately, not quite knowing what it was for. He held it as she stepped, then took her other, forcing her to look up into his gaze. _Well? Ready?_

To turn away from everyone, everything, and all she had ever known. _Yes._

He squeezed her hands.

The priest-rector-clergyman mumbled something under his breath, gradually increasing its volume so it was audible to human ears, although sometimes it dropped off again into silence. Pulta could feel Luke flinching slightly every time the man did so, as if those words were so Very Incredibly Important and needed to be heard - which they rather were. Finally he looked at her in disgust and his mouth twitched. _Enough. This is not his personal repertoire for Death by Boredom. This is about _us_, isn't it?_

Pulta found herself hiding a smile. _Whichever you wish._

He hesitated for a moment, then slowly, his look changed. There were no words, and even if there had been words, it wasn't quite enough; words were not always honest, and only complete honesty could be held here. And she could see him, quite plainly, vowing - setting his mind to whatever he was setting it to with the droning of the priest-rector-clergyman in the background. And then he finished. As unfussily simple as that.

And she could feel with the passing of the baton, all the denials - all the fears and doubts and words come rushing back to haunt her. Rage's flashing eyes - although she had gone through the trouble of sending back her parents; that horrible, terrible hurt in her eyes. What about her friends? The ones who were 'rare to have' and so special to her heart. Was this really the end of all that? Was it the end of that happiness, only to open up another door with just as much?

No words entered her mind. There were no words. No words could measure. So she searched through her mind - past that - through her heart, to find that one, perfect, unmarred part which had been waiting for the one, perfect, unmarred day; for today. And she found it. _... to love you, until the day we die. And if you die first, that my love should go beyond death. And if I die first, that I might love you from beyond the grave._

She was jerked out of her thoughts by him moving; speaking something. And she suddenly realized the priest-rector-clergyman was waiting now, for her. And it was quite simple, she realized also, to speak those two little words to finish off what she had wished for all along. They fit nicely on her tongue, and flowed forth perhaps a bit more eloquently than she wanted: "_I do_."

"... and I now pronounce you..." he shut the book with his faded, pale hands that had closed it so many times before. "... man and wife. You may now kiss the bride."

Except Luke didn't move.

An entire second ticked by, and suddenly, fear gripped her. It had happened. She'd done it. She hadn't been completely honest, had she; somehow she'd done something stupid enough he couldn't look past it. No. It was the mud on the shoe. Dangit. The mud! Mary had been so kind... she'd told her and told her and told her and she couldn't have wiped off some stupid mud-

Luke raised an eyebrow, a smile beginning to twitch over his lips. _Well? Your call._

Pulta flushed, realizing what he meant. She had asked him; he had respected her wishes. She could feel her cheeks coloring as she slid her hands out of his grasp and gently looped them around his neck. "You're too honest for your own good, Luke Cahill," she finally managed to squeeze out.

"I'm still waiting."

She swallowed, wondering just _how_ exactly you were supposed to kiss someone. Maybe dating a bunch of boys wasn't such a bad idea after all. It was kinda better to get some experience under your belt... Of course, she didn't wear a belt technically.

"... you put your lips on mine..."

"Right. I know that." She swallowed again, wondering what texture it felt like. Like skin, or softer?

He pinched her waist, making her jump. "He's staring..."

_Wo_m_an up, Mrs. Cahill._ Pulta ran her tongue around the edge of her mouth, feeling the air suck the moisture away as she hesitated. He was amused now, the smile beginning to show. She pressed forward, stunned by the electric-jolt of pleasure she received as his smile broke into a partial grin beneath her. His arms tightened around her waist, but he didn't move, forcing her to continue. Pulling back momentarily, she paused; and then suddenly, his lips slammed against hers, holding them immobile. A moan started from low in her throat, gratefully stifled since she hadn't any air to release it. So that was what Mary was talking about. It was terrible - desperately needing air, yet dragged ever-closer by his invisible draw.

And then he pulled away while gently letting her go with a final brush.

Pulta leaned on his shoulder, trying to catch her breath that had been so simply stolen from her.

He curled in near her ear, purposely close enough that every vowel brushed her skin against his lips. "See what you missed out on? Twenty years old and never been kissed..."

"Hush!" She hissed. Suddenly remembering the priest-rector-clergyman, she whirled towards the pulpit, but there was no one there. He had disappeared.

"I asked him to leave after we were done." Luke grinned a positively _seductive_ grin. "I could have my own dirty way with you on the floor right now."

"_Luke Cahill!_"

"Joking," but he laughed, pulling in and kissing her again. There was no room for moving; he dominated every twist, every touch. She gasped again as they broke apart. "I knew everything Mary was telling you in there; I didn't want her to, really. It's much more fun when you have no idea whatsoever what you're doing."

"You_ filthy creature_!"

"Not that filthy."

He was gentle the next time, allowing her the freedom to hold for as long as she wanted. Pulta slipped away after a few moments, not too out-of-breath. He latched around her waist, holding her where she was though.

"I love you."

She couldn't help it. She leaned against his shoulder, half-laughing with the just-realized absurdity of the moment. "As do I... when you're not cracking dirty jokes."

"My apologies." He winked, then suddenly turned towards the church entrance. "Do you... do you hear someone?"

"_Someone_?" Pulta frowned. "No... no. Not really. Why?"

Letting go of her, he started down the long aisle towards the doors. "That sounds like..."

The doors flew open. "-G'T 'IM! I CAUG'T 'IM, PAPA! LOOK A' 'IM! AIN'T 'E A BEAUTY?"

Pulta collapsed on the low step in a heap of silk cloth and petticoat as she resisted the urge to laugh and laugh and do nothing about it.

Winthrop. Inadvertently dripping mud over the entire front half of the church. "LOOK A 'IM, PAPA! AIN'T 'E PRETTY? CAUG'T 'IM MYSELF!" A poor, desperate, terrified frog being held by one hind leg was dangled in front of Luke.

She could see him trembling with the effort of keeping the rage in; frantically attempting to contain the volcano that said that _ain't was not a word, no matter how some illiterate, codswallop children might wish it was so. And that the English language was entirely grateful to those same children for their h-less word additions to it._ She had two seconds. Maybe.

"Oh my goodness, Winnie. Here. Let me look at it."

He raced up to her, still dripping mud all over the aisle and grinning obliviously. "Look a' 'im, mu-Pulta. I swam... and I swam... and I swam till I reached the bottom of the giant pond, and there was a lake underneath it, and it was all clear-" he paused for a breath "-and out of nowhere this gigantic fish came along and nearly swallared me up. And I fought him until I was a'turning blue and runnin' outa breath. And then this guy swum past me again-" Winthrop rubbed his muddy face with his muddy hands, only succeeding in smearing the mud over him more. "-an' I caug't 'im. I caug't 'im!"

"Here, don't hold him by his leg like that, poor fellow." Pulta righted the diminutive frog. "Oh, he _is_ a pretty one. Look at his spots here... and there. Feel his belly?"

Winthrop giggled. "'e's soft."

"Of course," she whispered back as if it were a secret just between the two of them. "So he can swim better. See his flippers?"

"You are _filthy_, Winthrop."

Winthrop looked down, then up guiltily into the face of his father. "It... it was kinda muddy down there, Papa."

"As if I can't see that?"

"Well..."

"Go change. Now. And I want you up in your room in fifteen minutes ready for bed."

"-but, _Papa_..."

"No 'but's." Luke shot him a look. "It's nearly your bedtime. Now-"

"HE GOT AWAY!" Pulta leapt to her feet with a guilty look to Winthrop; a sorta-somewhat- accidentally-on-purpose-let-the-frog-get-away look to Luke. "Hurry, Winnie! Capture him! Catch him before he gets away!"

One... two... three... Winthrop was gone - and so was the frog.

Luke narrowed an eye at her.

She shrugged, a smile twitching onto her face. "And... just how many times when you're a child do you battle giant fish and muddy lakes all to get a pretty little frog?"

"You'll make him a fibber."

"Imagination." She couldn't resist wrapping her arms around his neck.

Luke wrinkled his nose. "That mud smells awful."

"It'll wash; clothes will wash - and fade. Memories never will."

"I would rather have a memory of a first kiss, than a picture of my son flying into a church completely filthy, screaming unintelligible words and dangling a dirty frog."

Pulta kissed his cheek. "But those are the _precious_ ones."

He looked at her for a long moment before kissing her cheek back gently. "You're going to say that I have a lot to learn, aren't you."

"Yes."

He shook his head, fighting the grin on his face. "You're impossible."

"Everyone is impossible - only in different ways."

"And you are the most impossible of all." He leaned down to kiss her again and she closed her eyes, enjoying the precious moments of pleasure.

**-=-(*)-=-**

_"You're spilling the punch!"_

_"No, Angelina and- NO WAY, shut up."_

_"She's got to be around here-"_

_"-never mind; Daniel hates Victoria. Didn't you know that? She was, like, So last year..."_

_"I'm too hot. Did we bring a battery fan?"_

_"HEY- youflubber-footedlumber-cutter. Watch the PUN-"_

_"NOW MY SHOES ARE PINK!"_

Luke raised an eyebrow. "I have a feeling..."

"I'm hearing things." Pulta swallowed, pressing against the outer wall of the church and pulling Luke with her. "I'm hearing things. Because... because first of all, we just got out of the church. Second of all, I don't want to deal with this now. Really... not now. And thirdly, Hello hates all things punch. Punch colors, punch dresses, and especially punch itself. She would never carry _anything_ of the sort. And Apple is never called flubber-footed. He is quite graceful when he wants to be; and Arieda _never_ gossips - especially not with Pine and Devi. Eva never goes anywhere without her arsenal. Period. And fifthly, to top all that, Rage hates me - and Rage has the time machine, and Rage would never take them back here after she hates me and never wants to see me again. So that's that."

He raised both eyebrows. "I would ask for that to be clarified, but I think they would find us before you finished your explanation."

"They would," she managed. "And they would, when I have absolutely no intentions or wishes-"

"AHA!"

They both turned to find a joyous, excited girl flying towards them carrying an enormous bowl of pink punch. Luke glanced at his wife. It almost sounded as if she were counting. One... Two... Three...

"NOOOoo_oooooo_!" The girl tripped and a miniature tidal wave of punch continued to slid through the grass toward them. Luke's eyebrows stayed up and his mouth interestingly twisted to the side as he stepped back again to avoid the drink.

"Aw man... is it over?" Another girl appeared from behind the church corner.

Luke's eye crimped - somehow. "And what is your classification of 'over'?"

"Well, they kissed. Or wherever they are. Maybe all the weddings happen on Sundays. Is that it? Are there, like, five couples getting married every weekend here? Geezes. That's nuts. And I thought we were bad. Well, anyway, do you know where His _Regal Lordship_ Luke Cahill is, and Pulta Rag- well, Cahill now, I guess. Pulta _Cahill_?" The girl crossed her arms and stared at him as if he had no idea whatsoever what she was talking about.

A girl with curly hair and a stiff demeanor appeared behind her. "Welcome to the 1500s, Arieda. You're staring at them. And Hello; yes, you, silly. Those who run, fall. And besides, I'm certain that their lord_ships_ wouldn't like ungainly peasants sopping themselves in mud at their feet. It's not ladylike, anywho."

Luke felt her flinch beside him, but she attempted to ignore the barbs, turning to Hello, who's mouth had dropped. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah... yeah. Of course I'm fine; just the punch - the punch isn't fine. I guess it's a bit too late to go back for more anyway. Doesn't matter much."

Pulta stepped forward, offering a hand. "I don't... I don't look _that_ different, do I? I mean- just..."

Hello took it. "Naw, just different."

"Sorry. It's all Mary's fault... I told her I didn't want my hair up, but she didn't listen." Pulta yanked her up and quickly engulfed her in a hug. "I'm so glad you came. I've missed you so."

The hugging turned into a group hug with Devi, Eva, Turq and Pine added on. "We've _all_ missed you. Technically - it's only been a day or so there. Except for Miss Grouchy who's decided to turn her lab into the garbage pail on Sesame St-"

"HEY."

There was a very unladylike snort. "_Sorry, Rage_."

Luke turned away from the commotion and flirtious girl-talk that soon sprung up and focused his attention on the two people who seemed to be a bit misplaced. A boy, who seemed to be about nineteen or twenty; and a girl - the so-obvious stiff one who's name was Rage, and... who he had a bone to pick with. Later.

Shuffling steps seemed to work well. The girls moved farther away from the church, walking and talking in one big clique, and slowly the three outsiders slipped behind into their own group - which was quickly abandoned into two. The silence was killing. Pausing for what seemed to be a reasonable amount of time, Luke finally allowed himself to speak. "Don't tell me... Apple?"

"Right."

"So... why a fruit? Anything in the world and you wish to be called after a fruit."

A half-smile made its way onto the boy's face. "Eh... just... one of those things you pick up - it sticks. Then you've got it for life. I knew a guy who's name was Melon. I don't know how he got it, and I never asked."

"Good thing."

There was a allowance of most-cut-ice-guy-laughter. "Right. You know... The Grinch over there paired me up with Her."

"Her?" Luke's eyes flashed for a moment. "My _wife_?"

"No, no, no, no. Nothing happened. The only reason we did it was so we could get into prom and destroy the veggie bar that had been set up for the vegetarians - and she wanted to run around in this weird dress screaming: "SCARLET O'HARA! ZOMBIE STYLE!"

Luke raised an eyebrow.

Apple cleared his throat. "Futuristic joke. I just brought that up... the Rage... me/her thing, because I thought it was funny. She thought it was funny too."

"Good thing."

Slightly uneasy laughter now. The Grinch shot them deadly looks from her sniper-aiming position a few yards off.

"So... how is she?" Apple glanced at him. "Well, I mean, technically; she's been away for a couple months, right?"

Luke shrugged. "Fine."

"I would think you could say more than 'fine'."

"Our personal business is our personal business."

"Sorry." Apple rolled his eyes. "I didn't know that asking how someone was doing was evoking the privacy of the wondering if it was going to snow."

"You didn't ask if it was going to-"

"No, of course I didn't. I just asked-"

"You asked-"

They glared at each other in the you-don't-understand-me-so-I-might-have-to-break-your-nose way men have. Then Luke's look changed into one of: I-have-things-to-take-care-of-and-unfortunately-don't-have-time-to-break-your-nose-so-if-you-will-excuse-me...

"Fine." Apple shrugged and wandered away.

Luke glanced at the sky to avoid looking in any direction where the two Untouchables might have gone. It was a deep violet now with shimmers of pink and gold on the horizon that shone off some thunderclouds in the distance. The far east was teal, forgetting a few stars that were supposed to be shining. Almost as if it was fate, a little brown frog hopped past his feet; then a little brown child - the mud had dried - ran past as well.

"_Winthrop..._"

"SOR- Oh, drat. Sorry, Pap- Come _on_, stupid frog! Comin'!"

"You were supposed to be in bed half an hour ago."

"Yeah... yeah-" Winthrop pounced again, right in front of Rage who gave a yelp and jumped back. "-I'm... I'm comin'!"

Luke cleared his throat.

"Pap-_a_!"

"Here," Pulta interfered. "I'll go one way, you go the other. And then he can't get away, right?"

"Right."

"If you get that dress _dirty_... Mary's going to blow a hole in the-"

"Alright... alright..." Rolling her eyes, they quickly dispatched, making a humorous scene with them both tiptoeing through the grass in a circle towards a poor, over-excited, brown frog. They both leaped - and both collapsed in the grass moaning. "You, sir..." Pulta glanced at him, wincing. "... have a hard head."

"Like it doesn't hurt?"

Laughing, she tugged him up and they set off downhill after the frog again, leaving Luke staring after them in helpless inefficiency. Laughing as well, her friends grouped together to talk of whatever futuristic plans still had to be made; Apple slowly merged in as well, but Rage stood aloof still with her eyes watching the pouncing bride and her son. Luke watched her from the sides of his eyes so as to not draw attention to himself.

Rage suddenly flinched. "Do you love her?"

Spoken surprise. Luke raised an eyebrow, noticing he had been doing that a lot lately. "I would hope so. I married her, didn't I?"

"Just because you're married doesn't always mean you love one another."

The eyebrow turned down into a glare. "Is this conversation going to end like Apple's - in private-"

"-Consternation?" Rage snorted. "_Please_... He asked a stupid question, and being men, you gave him a stupid answer, which then turned into a glaring-match and then you would've fought over a stupid question when you just should've given him a straight answer. I'm not stupid."

The eyebrow raised. "Interesting..."

"Answer my question. You're avoiding it."

"I wasn't."

"You _are_."

The eye crimped. "It would be extremely childish to say: '_Was not_'."

"Okay, Laps may think that's charming, but I don't. That's stupid, just like your other stupid answer to Apple's stupid question. Now shut up and intellectually answer my _intellectual_ question."

"Yes, I love her; because you seem to like making a big deal out of it."

"_Because_?"

"YES." Luke glared at her. "YES, I DO. There. Happy now? And her name is not 'Laps' like some stupid group of people all sitting down with a dog on their laps."

An almost sly smile slid across Rage's face. "And is that so...?"

He crimped an eye.

Rage smiled condescendingly. "So she never told you her full name? Lapulta Ragwrine? She never said all the nicknames she has: Laps... Lappy... Atlupal... Pulta? Hm?"

"She only needs one," he pointed out.

"It's the view of the thing," Rage snapped. "And I, personally, don't think she should be here at all."

"As if you haven't made that clear enough?" He snarled. "She was_ traumatized _when you took her back the last time; she was scared to death."

"Laps does not get 'scared'," Rage made quotation marks in the air. "She- what the heck. Look at her. Bouncing around out there without a care in the world. She's ruining that dress, you know. And you call her _scared_? You think she ever gets scared? Trust me, I've been her best friend forever, and I know she doesn't get 'scared'."

Luke eyed her for a long time. Because then they didn't see... _that_; the interior, her place where she really was scared. "You're blind as a bat."

"And for your information, bats are not _blind_. They use highly advanced technology of echolocation to find their way in the dark and for a bat to run into anything is _extre-mely_ unusual."

"Alright, _Katherine_. Since you're such a good friend and all, then why did she marry _me_, and not _you_?"

Rage stared at him.

He found himself curling up his lip in a sly smile. Caught.

"Because she's not gay, stupid." She finally spit out. "And if you want to play that game, I can play it too."

"Really?"

The girl's eyes flashed. "Then why did she marry you when I met her in kindergarten? _Kindergarten_. We were friends all the way through elementary school, and junior high, and half of high school. And then when I moved away, we talked for hours; every day, at exactly five o' clock. We told each other _everything_. And then when I told her about _you_, she turned sick in the head."

"You never met me-"

"Books, stupid. She isn't a Cahill like I am. Look at her. Do you see any part of any of them in her?" Rage glanced at her friend for a long moment, then muttered something under her breath that sounded like _... part Maddie... _or of the like. "And so we grew up. We were respectable adults. We went to college; got good grades - or did in the things she liked anyway; didn't throw parties. I did my things, she did hers. And then... when she left-"

"She did not _leave_. You stuck her into that-"

"And nothing would've happened if she hadn't have been thinking of you at the instant!"

"And... that's somehow our fault?"

"YES!" Rage kicked a stone down the hill. "YES. Because if YOU had not EXISTED, then NONE OF THIS EVER WOULD'VE HAPPENED."

Luke demurely raised an eyebrow, attempting to be oblivious. "So... you wish me dead?"

"Ye- _no_. Because the damage is already done. If I shot you in the head now, that would pretty much be the equivalent of blowing up the world. And... unfortunately, that would only serve to make her unhappy. Besides, my parents never wanted me to be a murderer - not like you would know anything about that."

Luke nodded slowly. "I... understand. We talk about everything though."

Rage stared at him. "Everything..." she hissed softly. "Well, then. Did she tell you about her dreams? She was going to be a writer; and she was a damn good one. I was going to get a major in Architecture. And then we were going to travel the world together; she was going to write and I was going to do my thing. We were going to do everything together. Everything. That was what she dreamed of. Did she tell you that?

"Did she tell you about what kind of car she wanted? A Subaru; brown - light brown, not dark. Did she tell you about all the walks by the lake with all of us?" Rage gestured to Apple, and the group including Devi, Eva, Pine, Turq and Hello. "Did she tell you what authors she dreamed of meeting? Or what about her favorite Japanese food from the Sushi place across the street from our dorms? Did she tell you all of that? Hm?"

Luke could feel himself recoiling from her onslaught and he flinched at the unimaginable thought. "She has no reason to."

Rage's eyes flashed. "And guess what. She told _me_. I know what you're thinking; I'm some stupid, soft, meaningless girl who cares nothing for her friend. But I care EVERYTHING for her; I KNOW her. And yet you know what she wrote to me when she left the last time? That you are more important. That she is willing; _willing_, to give up all that. Every one of those dreams; for you. For nothing but sitting around in an old, rotting castle with that- that _rambunctious _little boy and you, and live her life out that way."

"You are visionless."

"FINE," Rage exploded, drawing a bit of attention from a few of the chatterers some yards ahead. "I'm _sorry_ I can't live here like she can. I'm _sorry_ I want to go; I don't want to be here. But God... if you so hurt her-"

"_HURT HER?_ You _ASSUME_ for me to _STOOP SO-_"

"Hush up," Rage snapped. "She isn't hurt that way - you're the blind one if you can't see that. It's the opposite. She will do _anything_ for you. Anything. Anything at all. If you asked for the moon, she would get it for you - somehow. If you asked her to kill herself, she would do it without question. That's who she is when she loves someone; we used to have her heart. But now, you do. And there is nothing, _nothing_, that will stifle that worse that if you _do not love her_. Which only brings me to my first question - which you sidetracked."

"So... you're questioning if I love her, because... you fear I might hurt her. Not because you hate me...?"

"Precisely."

Luke stared at her for a long time until she fidgeted, which forced him to raise an eyebrow. "We could have staring contests."

"If you're talking about Laps," Rage turned aside with a awkward air. "I don't love you like she does - which would be problematic; and I believe staring contests are bad for your eyes - so I wouldn't have ones with you anyway."

"You would lose," he found the corners of his mouth turning up into a grin.

"No, I would-" Rage glared at him. "Whatever. You're sidetracking me. Do you _love h_-"

"With all his heart."

They both jumped. Rage recovered first. "This is a private conversation, Mrs. Cahill, thankyouverymuch."

"Concerning my husband, everything is my business." Pulta smiled, looking almost as if the tiny turn up of the lips had always been there, and always would be. She leaned her head against Winthrop's, who yawned sleepily. "And besides, I think I can answer that question."

"I asked _him_."

Luke shot his wife a grateful glance. "Did you catch the frog?"

"I didn't," she smiled. "Winnie did. Show him, Winnie."

Winthrop turned about and presently, there was a show of frantic hopping from inside his tunic. "'e mig'ta gott'n squashed in my pockets, Papa."

Luke stared at both of them and he received a laughable, reprimanding hush even though he hadn't said anything. "Just until bedtime."

"It _is_ bedtime."

Pulta shrugged helplessly and turned aside. "Did that answer your question, Rage?"

Her appointed 'twin' watched her as she walked off towards the castle's side entrance with the muddy Winnie on her hip.

Luke found himself smiling. "Well?"

Rage flinched. "Let me just say this - a hint of advice from someone who knows her. She will _not_ tell you what she feels. She's like a plant. You're the one that has to take care of her, and if you do, she'll bloom. I guarantee it - besides, she's not like a seed package where there are percentages of what seeds might bear fruit, and which ones-"

"Rage."

"Right. Presents mean nothing to her. You could buy her a case full of... I don't know. The prettiest jewels in London, and she'd only wonder what she'd do with them. But she will do anything for your love. And if you don't give it to her, she will die - she'll never say so, but you will lose all you've gained. And trust me, there were _a lot_ of guys back home who would've fallen on their faces for her, and she turned each and every one of them down."

Luke nodded curtly, an eyebrow raised in a curious air. "I see. How are you getting home, anyway? Don't tell me all of you are staying for a week..."

"No. See... that's our-" Rage stopped herself. "That's _their_ present. Mine's still... in the process."

Luke glanced around and took a wild guess. "It's in that box, isn't it."

"Yeah. And the generator with that. Remind her to fill it with water once a week - that's what the batteries run on..."

"Batteries?"

"Good grief - forget it. I'll tell her everything."


	17. Chapter 17

**Oh... ah, hey. There was something I forgot to tell you in the last chapter. I actually drew a picture of Pulta in Puke 'just before her wedding' and then a picture of the front and back of the wedding dress. Unfortunately, my procrastination issues made me forget entirely about it. So now I have to find it, scan it in, and see if I could possibly upload it onto TMA pictures, which I will then, give you the link. :) Expect it in seven point five hundred fifty-seven thousands of a year. o.o**

**I also wish to say that I cut the ball scene because I decided it was mainly angst about who hated 'Pulta/Luke', and who thought 'Pulta/Luke' was fine: such as the king pulls Luke aside and thinks Pulta is amazing although she shouldn't be there, but some Duke dude cuts Luke and dances with Pulta and tells her she is absolutely NOT to be there. etc. Which leads to them walking and angsting randomly in the garden underneath the stars... o.o You get the picture. I can write it really quick though if you like. Heads up, Jane won't be in that.**

**Between you and me, (;D) all the friends mentioned in here are online friends, such as my 'twinsie', RageRunsStill, Evanesence456, Hello, Pineapple, DeviousDragons. :)**

**There are two inappropriate words in this chapter. I absolutely despised putting them in, but I rather think it makes the chapter, unfortunately. o.o**

_**...you are teenagers... this is rated 'T'... you are teenagers... this is rated 'T'... /I/ am a teenager... I can survive a 'T' fic...**_

**-=-(*)-=-**

**Chapter Seventeen**

_He was so still._

_The woman bit her lip, curling a lock of Winthrop's silky, deep-brown hair around her finger. Her conscience tugged restlessly at her brain and she could feel his sister's and brother's words flowing around her as they argued about 'what now?'. But her eyes closed, and she instinctively gripped the boy tighter. This was not the time to mourn. But... if not now, then there would be no time to mourn. He deserved so much more than this. The footsteps on the stairs loomed ever-closer, but she couldn't force herself to open her eyes and let reality flood in._

_It didn't fit. At all. He just _couldn't_ die like that. Nobody did. You did not die from a wall caving in, and that was that. And why did she still have her heart? Shouldn't it hurt more? It was supposed to be ripped open and gone; she ought to be bent over, sobbing on the copse - why not? In opposition to her thoughts, the child kicked lightly inside her, making her open her eyes and force a smile. _Of course, _she thought,_ I cannot because of you, little one, correct?

_Her lips formed the word before she really thought what she was doing. "Katherine?"_

_His sister whirled towards her. "Finally. They're coming. We must go."_

_"I know."_

_"_Well_?"_

_"And what do you suggest?" The woman managed another smile. "The windows? Besides, I think three stories would be rather hard to jump for anyone."_

_His brother behind them snorted. "_You_ would-"_

_"Please," the woman shifted her weight uneasily to the other foot as the voices in the corridor became louder. "Can you take him?"_

_"Him?" The man's sister eyed the little boy warily._

_"He doesn't bite," the woman gave her son a firm look as she passed him over. "... usually."_

_"Now is not the time for pleasantries..." but his sister took the boy anyway, holding him rather awkwardly away from her. "What do you _eat_?"_

_The boy narrowed his eyes. "Liver in the morning, brains at lunch, and then a couple of arms and legs for dinner."_

_They glared at each other._

_The man's brother snickered._

_"Pleasantries..." the woman muttered, fumbling with the metal object and forcing another round of shot into the barrel. "Rarely pleasant..."_

_"I will _never_ have children. And if _you_ have any ideas..." The man's sister shifted as far away from the little boy as she could holding him, and wrinked up her nose._

_"Do not speak so soon. I, personally, never thought I would either."_

_"You were married to the king's advisor." The man's sister shot her brother on the ground a rather haughty venomous glance. "Frankly, I'm surprised you only have one - two, technically."_

_The woman smiled. "We've only been married a year and a half. Besides, I left the third behind."_

_"In danger." The lord appeared in the doorway, eyes glinting off the exposed light from the wall the man's brother had felled before the sister could reply with surprise. A smile slid over his mouth. "A rather odd move for a mother, don't you think? Rather odd that she would let herself be caught here - with her son, no less. Just... odd."_

_The woman's hands trembled with the object, bringing it up level to her face. "Don't take a step farther."_

_The lord's smile grew wider. "I might step as far as I wish. I could have you all dead right now, you know." Suddenly his attention turned to Katherine and the smile changed, making the woman's stomach twist in terror. "We have similar interests; similar thinking. You would leave that?"_

_The man's brother whirled on his sister, eyes rage-filled. "_You would_-"_

_"Thomas..." The lord held up a hand, subsequently clamming him up with some form of purely sour mien. "Katherine?"_

_"I- I cannot stay... please."_

_Antagonism filled his face. "Do as you desire." He turned again to the woman with her hands still shaking. "Put that thing down."_

_"You would have to kill me first."_

_The lord's lip curled up and his eyes flashed. "The only reason you are not dead yet is because I need your husband. And... because your son amuses me."_

_The man's sister flinched as the little boy leaned forward, glaring hard enough at the lord to prove himself the son of a Cahill if he had not been known so. "_Illiterate Codswallop_."_

_The lord allowed a dry smile at the woman. "You see? Now, I am feeling... generous... today. If you tell me about that - thing - you find such a weapon, I might spare your life _and_ your son's. Maybe. Quite an opportunity, I believe."_

_"Get down the stairs before I blow your brains out."_

_"Are you _threatening_ me?"_

_"I am threatening you. Yes, I am threatening you. I AM THREATENING YOU!" The woman screamed, nerves reaching their limit. "LEAVE US!"_

_The lord snapped his fingers; a guard moved forward from behind him and crumpled to the ground before he had taken two steps. He was already close though; too close. The lord's hands closed around her neck as she aimed the barrel at her head - better to die than be killed by _him_. Yet it was yanked out of her hands before she could pull the trigger. The hand about her neck clenched tighter, making her gasp for breath and she frantically tugged at it._

_"Tell me how it works," the lord hissed. "Tell me _now_."_

_"Y-you will k-kill us..." she gasped._

_"Better to die with them, or with me...?" His face was so close she could see the pores in his skin; the skin tugged achingly tight over nothing but muscle and bone. The child inside her kicked._

_"Y-you... aim it-" She dropped to the stone and the mold, lungs tearing at the damp oxygen refilling them._

_The object was thrust violently into her face, held... backwards, as she had held it only moments before to her head. "There, is that how?"_

_She nodded mutely, too weak to care._

_The lord stepped back and there was a heavy pause in the air. She could feel him moving above her, aiming at the man's sister, or his brother; perhaps the boy. Her body trembled with a shot of pain at the thought of the five-year-old lying limp and lifeless on the stone floor. "Please..." she whispered. But either the lord didn't hear her, or he ignored her._

_"_Leave them,_" a voice suddenly grated. The owner coughed - racking coughs that must've doubled him over. "_Let them be._"_

_And although she couldn't see it, the woman could nearly hear the hand lowering. "Cahill..." the lord's voice was sickly sweet. "How nice of you to join the land of the living again..."_

_"I've been listening..." The man paused, groaning hard as if pulling himself upright, or at least into a sitting position. "... to your incessent blundering... this entire time. Go find some others to terrorize."_

_"The others don't have what I need."_

_There was more coughing, so deadly it was hard to listen to._

_The woman pushed herself to her hands and looked behind. He looked awful, blood trickling slowly from the corner of his mouth; the gash on his forehead looked larger, if not deeper. But he was still pushing himself up, bracing himself against the wall. Alive. His brother and sister stared. "I will not... give you... what you seek."_

_"Then you do so at their sake." The lord smiled again, seemingly enjoying the cat and mouse game. "Besides, you forget I have the backup."_

_The woman flinched, reminded, and she glanced over at the men with crossbows, although most held drawn swords._

_"At... _our_ sake."_

_She could feel the lord trembling from rage. "So be it." The toe of a boot suddenly crashed into her jaw bone and the shock and pain of it rippled through her. "Join them. _Get up_."_

_The woman complied. The child inside her kicked lightly against its prison in what felt like a mixture of confusion and excitement. She drew her arm over the bulge, tears catching in her throat at the thought that none of them would ever live now to see whether it had been a boy or a girl. She silently prayed her husband had been right. The little boy reached out to her and she took him in her arms where he laid his head uncertainly against her neck, watching the lord warily._

_The lord aimed, leveling the object across from his head. Next to her, she could feel the man's brother fidgeting, most likely bored with the talk of antics while awaiting the thesis of their statements. She looked down the barrel and wished she could see something other than black._

_The man broke the silence with a snort and an amused grin. "You asked... her for how... to hold it," he managed. "You ignored her... you know. It's held... the other way."_

_The lord's lip curled up again. "So it was."_

_He flipped it around, the barrel pointing at his head._

_The woman resisted a grin, forcing herself back to the terror she had held a few moments before so any look on her face was hidden._

_The lord gave a final glare at all of them, and pulled the trigger._

_Guards shuffled their feet, waiting. The man's brother and sister glanced at each other, trying to figure out who was missing. The woman turned her head against the boy's cheek, kissing him softly and thanking God for quick thinking. The man no longer hid his grin as the smoke cleared._

_"HOLY SHIT!" His brother leaped forward and kicked the corpse with a shocking lack of respect for the dead. "DAMMIT, YOU BLEW HIS FUCKING HEAD AWAY!"_

_"_Thomas!_" The woman and her sister-in-law gasped at the same time - the man's sister for common curtesy and inappropriate word usage in front of women; the woman for her son, who was laughing at the words and would most likely use them again._

_The man shot his brother a warning glance with a condescending smile._

_Rolling her eyes, their sister stiffly spit out the corrections: "A head cannot '_fuck_'. It is wrong to assume that it is able to do so. And moreover, it is typically pronounced with a 'c' before the 'k'. Because 'fuk' sounds like the voice of a crow, and if you are to curse, people ought to understand what you are cursing, and what you are cursing about. And for the last time; that word is not to be used in my precence. Thomas, _p-_lease."_

_The guards glanced uneasily at the corpse as they had a direct view of a broken skull and a rather scrambled cerebrum. Most of them slipped away; those that didn't leave, hung up their swords or crossbows and waited to see what would happen._

_The woman slipped forward, kicking the object against the wall so it was braced there when she flipped it onto her foot and then raised that high enough she could pick it up without bending down. The man's sister tapped her shoulder then. "What- what _is_ that...?"_

_The woman smiled. "A ten-shooter pistol."_

_"A what?"_

_"A pistol; a gun. You can take it apart if you like once we get home. I don't think I'll need it anymore; hopefully."_

_The sister-in-law raised an eyebrow. "Really?"_

_"Sure." The woman winked. "Can you hold Winnie again?"_

_She groaned. "Right. I knew it was too good to be true."_

_The boy stuck his tongue out at her as far as it would go; which was rather long distance, and a teasing round of name-calling started up again, 'illiterate codswallop' being the first of the bunch._

_The man smiled then, nodding to his wife. Nobody noticed._

_"Are you all right?" She whispered softly. "I think we all thought-"_

_"Never been better." He coughed once, initiating a thin stream of blood again at the corner of his mouth. Being upright didn't help that, apparently._

_The woman leaned against him gently, allowing him to curl his arms around her. "When we get home... I'm going to make you stop lying to me."_

_"I haven't... been lying."_

_The woman smiled, brushing the blood away. "Hiding the truth. Good thinking there about the gun, by the way."_

_He waved it off. "It was the truth... I thought... he wasn't going to listen for a moment... there; he could've taken it two ways... Are we going now?"_

_"Hopefully." The woman glanced at his brother who was playing soccer with the lord's head. "And if not... we would probably wish to leave... _soon_."_

_"Rightly said," the man nodded curtly. "Shall we?"_

_"Do you need help?"_

_"No," he snorted. "You would... ask that?"_

_She gave him The Look. "Luke..."_

_He shifted his weight beneath her, letting her go and puffing out his cheeks before exhaling. "Yeah... yeah..." he winced. "Yeah... I think that might be good. Reminder: ... getting crushed by a wall... isn't all pleasantries."_

_She had to laugh, helping him loop his arm over her shoulders and dodge the corpse as they made their way towards the stairs._


	18. Chapter 18

**OMGOSH! Look! No author's note! No important things to be said! NOTHING HERE!**

**Oh, well, that was something, wasn't it? xP**

**-=-(*)-=-**

**Chapter Eighteen**

"Sword."

"Knife."

"Sword."

"Gun."

"Wha- sword."

Eva crossed her arms, stood on her tip-toes and glared at him as hard as it was possible for her to. "_Lance._"

"Sword. Deal, or no deal."

"Wait a- you _know_ the game show?"

"Game show-?"

Pulta looked up from her place on the ground where she and Rage were fitting metal hoops together. "If you're going to spar; spar. And I don't think shooting guns counts as sparring, Eva." She pointed out.

"It's dueling," Devi advised.

"Like the kind that killed a bunch of presidents," Rage put in.

Luke glanced back at Eva.

"Swords. Fine. Whatever. But I want a light one; no stupid heavy ones. It's no fair if you cheat."

He shot her another look. "Give me the weights."

"What weights? Why would I want weights if-"

"Give me the weights."

"I don't-"

He cleared his throat.

"Fine..." After a dirty look, she dug under her spy jacket and produced two, three-pound weight packages she would've wrapped around the sword's handle to make it swing with greater depth. "... it's no fun if you don't cheat..."

Luke hesitated, half his face slightly turned up in thought. "All's fair in fun?"

Her eyes shone. "_Gimmie_."

Pulta rolled her eyes as he tossed back the weights and perambulated off to produce two swords. Rage caught her eye and handed her another wire. "String that through the Z5 piece, will you?"

She smiled and complied. "So... how many pieces does this have anyway? I mean... there's sure a lot of them here..."

"Ninety-seven," Pine chipped in, mounting the daisy-chain she'd just completed on her head. "Mostly wires. Except Rage's gift-"

Rage shot her a glare and Pine instantly clammed up; apparently there was some spoken agreement about 'Rage's gift'.

Pulta glanced at both of them. "Really... I'll take your word for it. So... what is your gift anyway? Five thousand yaun so I can buy unlimited silk dresses from China?"

"Five thousand sounds like a lot more than ninety-seven."

"True, that." Pulta dug deep into her mind and attempted to find the answer. "Authorized permission from the government that I'm now an official time traveler?"

Rage rolled her eyes, staring precociously at Luke and Eva who were now battling back and forth across the ridgetop with an uncountable number of dekes, lunges and twists. "Nope."

"A brown Subaru so I can terrorize the 1500 countryside?"

"Laps-"

"Twenty dogs! That's it! You bought me a kennel of Alaskan Malemutes! How sweet-"

"_Lapulta_."

Pulta stopped, glancing at her friend. "What? No dogs?"

"I'm not really a dog person; and besides, how could I even fit them in the machine?" Rage held up a finger so she wouldn't reply. "I- I need to talk to you," she whispered.

They rose, setting down their L8 and H6 pieces. Looking carefully at the laughing group behind them, they slipped away till they sat down again a few yards off - out of hearing rage.

"If this is about Luke..." Pulta murmured softly.

Rage ran a hand through her hair, bunched the wild strands into a ponytail, then let it go; she puffed out her cheeks. "No... no, it's not. It's... different."

"Different how? What is it?"

"You've been here a matter of months, haven't you."

"Sure..."

"Then you should've changed," Rage whispered. "Look, you still have that acne scar on your shoulder from- well, last week, technically. If you've been here for months, then it should've gone away."

"What are you saying?" Pulta bit her lip.

Rage shrugged. "It... looks like besides the time differences, when you go back in time, you don't age; it makes sense if you think about it."

Gently pucking a handful of dandelions, Pulta started entertwining the stems to make a crown. "So... you're saying that... that if I stay here-"

"-he grows old; you don't."

They were silent for a long while.

"Well...?" Pulta finally whispered.

"'Well' what?"

"Well... what's your idea? I know you have an idea."

Rage shrugged helplessly. "I- I don't know. The only thing I could think of is that every other week, or year, or whatever, you come back and spend the same amount of time there you did here."

"... without him."

"Right," Rage huffed softly. "I keep forgetting."

"No... no. It makes sense; it's a good plan. Just... it's too good. It makes too much sense."

"You're making none."

Pulta winced. "I mean... it sounds too good. I get to spend a year with him here, and then a year with you? But really, what happens if... if I get..."

Rage raised an eyebrow. "Spit it out."

"... if I get... pregnant; what if I have the baby there? And if I have him here, then who's going to take care of him while I'm gone?"

Rage shrugged. "I donno. That's your problem. But all you have to do is stay here, then-"

"Rage-"

"It's the best I could think of," her twinsie blurted out. "I'm sorry! Well... technically-" she clammed up.

"Rage..."

"Okay. So... just until _my_ wedding gift. Alright? Can you deal with it until then?"

"Of course - so long as you don't get sidetracked. Really, you ought to let Pine stay with you now... I'm worried sick over who's going to take care of you if you burn your arm again."

Rage puffed out her cheeks again. "Right. Thanks. I'll work on it; and if I remember that time, _you _were the one who crashed my car because you _wouldn't put The Wizard of Oz down_."

They exchanged guilty, laughable grins.

"I'll miss you," Pulta finally whispered softly. "I already miss you - dreadfully."

"Yeah..." Rage mumbled awkwardly into the ground. "Yeah... yeah... I know. And it's just been about a week there. You know, about half your Biology class nearly pulverized me yesterday. They thought I'd murdered you and hid your remains in the back of my closet."

That made her laugh. "That's what happens when you never miss a class."

"Right. Well... I don't know. Harry - from Chem, right - actually _looked_ at me yesterday. Maybe I'll be missing my classes too soon."

"Like that will ever happen."

They grinned at each other.

"HEY, WATCH IT!" Rage flattened to the ground in time to dodge being beheaded from Eva's wildly flinging sword. "YOU COULD'VE KILLED ME, NUTCASE!"

"Wait," Pulta murmured. She suddenly scrambled to her feet. "Who's that riding?"

"You're asking me? I thought you were the expert on old-time banners."

"I..." she swallowed, peering closely at the approaching guard - at least, he looked like a guard. There was no armor, just a leather scabbord with a sword connected to a belt; the rider looked like some form of nobility or someone rich enough to have silver threads strung into the outer lining of a tunic. "I don't... know..."

Rage cursed as she started running down the hill towards Luke and Eva , then got to her feet and started after her. Almost imperceptively, the rider seemed to urge his horse faster, as if trying to reach the two duelers before they got there.

As Pulta neared, she could hear the cheerless banter of the two fighters; Luke was teasingly toying with the furious Eva, who seemed to be getting tired. "Luke-" He stopped the swinging mid-way through the air, twisted the sword handle down and with all the momentum, it thrust straight into the soil.

"Good grief! Don't you know what swords are?"

Pulta nodded. "I- I know. But... there. There's someone riding-"

Luke took one glance at the rider and his face darkened to a stony, blank façade. "Go back to the others."

"Who is it?"

"Pulta_, go_."

Rage tugged at her hand, but she didn't move. Shooting her a glare while stepping slightly in front of her, Luke drew his sword from the ground and motioned for Eva to stand beside him. The rider pulled up short of the group. His horse snorted once, taking fidgety steps forward and back. Luke's lip curled up. "_Vesper._"

"Quite a welcoming committee. I thank you. You didn't have to go through the trouble."

"I understand," the jaunt made a small smile twitch over his face. "It would've been better to kill me right off; my apologies. I don't go that easy."

"Unfortunately..." the lord muttered. He then straightened, shifting his weight in the saddle and switching reign hands from left to right. "Either way, I wish to express my condolences."

Eva snorted.

Luke raised an eyebrow. "Condolences? You don't quite seem the type. For what?"

"For getting married, firstly. I would've thought you, of all people, were smarter. And secondly, for getting killed soon. I didn't think I would have time to offer my best wishes in the next life when I'm busy ripping you apart _limb by limb_."

"You seem quite certain."

Vesper leaned closer. Pulta could see his eyes glittering, and she slowly realized Olivia was right; they did suck the very light from the sun - they were black holes with no depth. And no soul. "Let's just remember, shall we, that whatever your father had, didn't help him."

She caught the sleeve of Luke's tunic as he lunged forward, preventing him from certain suicide. Glowering, he ripped away from her and stood alone, trembling with anger as Vesper did nothing, watching him. Eva raised her sword.

The lord snorted, breaking the perilous silence. "No need for that. That was all I wanted."

"Leave, Vesper." Luke finally hissed.

The man shrugged with a casual air. "Very well; I'll take my departure. But just remember you had the right idea before; love only gets you into places that you soon wish you were never in." A merciless laugh split the twilight. "Good luck."

The horse was kicked into a canter, and only a black shadow across the grass was left of his threats.

Luke shoved the sword deep into ground and kicked the hilt. Either it didn't hurt his foot, or he ignored the pain as he stalked away, cursing.

Pulta gathered her skirts in both hands and started after him. "Luke..."

"_What_?" he snarled.

"Go take a walk," she whispered. "It'll help."

The fury on his face faded enough for him to give her a grateful glance before he continued on his previous course.

**-=-(*)-=-**

Luke closed his eyes, listening. There was Mary's chatter behind the door; Pulta's soft voice. They'd left then and Mary was prepping for the ball.

He reminded himself that James would probably be looking for him.

Taking a few steps forward, he paused outside Winthrop's door and listened intently for any sound. There was none. He was asleep. Slipping open the latch, he closed it softly behind him only to find a small lamp burning - _under the covers_ - and Winthrop reading. "_Good grief_," Luke murmured under his breath.

_Phht_. The light was blown out. The book was stuffed under the bed; Winthrop covered his head and promptly began to snore.

Luke chuckled softly. "Too late."

The snoring stopped and two guilty eyes peeked from under the quilt. "... I was just reading..."

"You know better than to move the lantern from your desk," Luke gave him a cautionary glance and nodded pointedly at the lantern - now on the floor. "What would've happened if your quilt caught fire?"

Winthrop snorted. "Put it out."

"... In time for it to spread to your bedframe, and then the wall?"

The boy shrugged.

"What are you reading anyway?" Luke knelt down and pulled out the book, somehow managing to read the title in the dark. "_Treasure Island_?"

"Pulta gave it to me." Winthrop sat up in bed, watching his father warily for the sake of the book.

Luke rolled his eyes. "In the morning then." He pulled the chair from Winthrop's desk and sat down by the bed. "And reading in the dark is bad for your eyes."

They were silent for a while; Winthrop sighed, curling deeper into his blankets. "Papa?"

"Hm?"

"Is Pulta..." he hesitated. "... is Pulta gonna stay?"

"Going to," Luke corrected. He could feel a smile slipping across his face in the dark. "Yes," he whispered softly. "She's going to stay with us. Always."

"Always?"

Luke nodded. The brown eyes peered up eagerly at him, and he was suddenly reminded of the lord's threat. _Lose Winnie? _Unthinkable. "Always... Winnie."

Winthrop's smile grew into an unimpared grin; he threw his arms around his father. Luke instinctively tightened and he corrected himself, wrapping his arms around Winthrop instead. "She's ever so much more fun than any tutor, Papa, and since there won't be any more tutors, that means I don't have to waste time digging up worms to frighten them away."

Luke raised an eyebrow and pushed his son away for a moment. "_Worms_, Winthrop?"

Winthrop flushed. "Not that many... just with Mrs. Thumbrelkin, and Mr. Guestien-"

"No more," Luke groaned.

"But that's just _it_, Papa," the boy grinned, clambering on top of the bed where he hopped excitedly up and down twice. "No more!"

Luke fought a smile. "That'll be enough for one day, warrior."

Yawning, Winthrop managed a weak grin and crawled under the covers again. "Papa?"

"Hm?"

"Mary said there was a ball tonight."

Luke stood up and pushed the chair back where it went. "There is."

"Can I go?"

He pulled up the covers, hiding his smile; Winthrop curled into them. "In thirteen years."

"Pa-_pa_..."

"Later, Winnie. Good night."

Winthrop yawned again, prolonging the response. "Good night... Papa..."

Luke slipped out of the room, shutting the door softly. The hallway was empty, thankfully. He slipped away to the rather unused sitting room to prepare for the unnecessary necessity of balls...

**-=-(*)-=-**

A night of sweetmeats, teasing, learning to dance, and utter love; cliques, kings and awe.

Blissful exhaustion.

Pulta stumbled into the room, grinning as she tripped, caught herself, and made her way into the sitting area. Behind her, Luke followed; she could feel him watching as she plopped down on the couch and fumbled with the laces that gripped her feet so tightly. He leaned on the backing of the couch after lighting a lamp. "So?"

"So what?" Pulta yawned.

"... What did you think?"

She paused, remembering the exquisite ballroom with the marble tiles and so many people. "You _really_ allow Winnie into balls at three?"

"No." He raised an eyebrow, leaning forward a bit more. "What gave you that idea?"

Yanking off one boot, she flipped it once in the air, then twice. "He was... there."

"He couldn't have been. I just checked on him. It's one in the morning and he's sound asleep."

She shot him a look as she started on the other boot. "He asked five girls to dance with him; and when you're three, you're pretty much irresistable."

Luke's mouth twisted upward to crunch scoldingly on the right side of his face. "_Pulta_..."

She shrugged. "I thought you'd let him."

"You do not 'allow' three-year-olds to go to balls. They go to sleep at seven. Precisely."

"Which didn't happen," Pulta pointed out.

"Right."

They raised eyebrows at one another.

She shrugged again, patting the seat beside her after she had yanked the second boot off. "It's still bothering you."

"What?"

"Vesper... you're worried."

A flicker of fury trickled across his face. "And you're not?"

"We'll be worried later," she whispered. "He said that's what he'd do, wasn't it? Later?"

Luke gave her a cold stare.

"Alright, maybe not _later_later, but it's still later." She reached up and gently brushed a piece of lint off his waistcoat. "We have time. And... we have each other. Isn't that the important thing?"

The icy gaze deepened. "You didn't hear a word he said, did you. He wants _you and Winnie_. I could matter less to him at this point; he wants my heart - on a stake, frankly."

Pulta flinched, turning away. "'Frankly' is right."

"Love is coecrive." He reached a finger down and slipped it against her chin, forcing her to look at him. "I believe I told you that beforehand - multiple times, mind."

"Not to what extent we would let it take us."

"Not to what extent we will force ourselves to go."

She raised two sincerely hopeful eyebrows.

"For your sake," a small smile played on his lips. "it is a good thing I'm no fool; and for your sake, it's also a good thing that I love you enough I've become one."

Pulta shook her head, smiling slightly as she reached up and curled her arms around his neck and kissed him. He tensed under her grasp, freezing up with an enamored smile on his face. Aimlessly teasing, she ran her fingers through his curls, laughing as he sputtered in protest, yet still kissed her back. "... I love you."

He yanked away, nearly sending her over the back edge of the couch and her elbows slammed down hard. Pulta fingered one gingerly. "Good grief..."

"I won't lose you," he whispered fiercely. "Not after this."

"... After this?"

"After us," Luke corrected. "I won't lose us."

"You can't lose 'us'-"

He waved the grammatical technicalities away. "I won't lose your love."

"The only reason you would lose it, is if you were inunderstandably a complete tow-head-"

"_I love you too_," he shot back with a playful growl. "Thanks a lot."

She grinned, yawning and placing her chin on her arms. "Luke?"

Luke ignored her, turning aside and kicking off his boots where they tumbled into free space in the entranceway to trip the next unfortunate entrant. "Hm?"

"Rage brought up an interesting thought."

"Hm." He fiddled with the top button, tugging ferociously at it until it popped loose, scattered across the floor before he could catch it and dropped into a crack through the wood.

"_Luke_."

Glancing at her, he leaned against the couch's armrest with a rather exasperated, patient air. "Yes?"

"Puke. Like... vomit, kinda."

"_Puke_?" He straightened up and raised an eyebrow. "I need that button, by the way."

Pulta shot him a look. "Try not acting like it's your enemy then, and you are mutual benefiters; the button doesn't have to suffer from you hurting it, and you don't have to spend time looking for the poor thing."

"The poor thing?" Luke shot _her_ a look. "Is this word... 'puke' going to be explained, or not?"

"In our world... sometimes you make these names for a couple, or a pair of people; just some coined term."

Luke stopped, the third button down on his vest. "You're joking."

"Rage," she shrugged helplessly. "Not me."

"Pulta - Luke. Puke." He laughed without humor, starting on the buttons again. "Very funny. I'm bursting my gall bladder."

"Luke..." Standing up, Pulta flicked his hands away from the buttons and popped the last three easily out of their button holes. "Is this really how you want to start our marriage: arguing about lost buttons at one-ten in the morning?"

"That... was a rhetorical question, was it not?"

"Luke."

He stopped then, puffed out his cheeks and let it out. "Right... Sorry."

She grabbed the corner of his tunic as he started to walk away. "Will you listen to one more thing? Please?"

"Of course."

"Will you sit down?"

He raised an eyebrow. "... Apparently yes?"

She plopped back down on the couch and he sat next to her. There were so many words... Pulta scrambled in her mind for the right ones. "You see... on the machine - the time machine... It has... kinks. And one of the kinks is: that if you go back in time, you don't age until you reach the time you left again. At least, that's what Rage and I think."

A smile twitched over Luke's face. "So that's what was bothering you."

"Bothering me?"

He reached over and softly tweaked her nose. "I'm not blind, Pulta. You weren't anywhere on earth at that ball."

Blushing, she turned away, closing her eyes to what she didn't want to think of.

"You have to leave," he supplied softly.

"Right. And... it can't really be helped. Every other month... or week - or year. Something like that..."

Luke slipped his arm around her. She yawned softly, curling into the plush satin. After a moment, her breathing deepened; courtesy of exhaustion and he took the chance to glance at her. She was nothing pretty; as she'd said before, the ladies of the court were so much prettier. (And she hadn't been told about any ball whatsoever a good amount of time beforehand, secondly. As she told him repeatedly, she really shouldn't have gone.) But in their eyes, there was a malicious glint, only seemingly guiltless; with her, it was almost innocence - that... he didn't think was quite as innocent as it seemed. Nevertheless, it felt good to be trusted. So few people willingly trusted him.

Lifting his arm, Luke gently fingered the tiny baby's breath wreath Mary had woven into her hair. She stirred beside him, trying to get comfortable again. Shifting his position, he began to pull out the stems from her hair. It was rather irking... he had to go one by one - and the shafts snapped often. Luke smiled as she settled down again, falling into a deeper sleep.

Silly. That was the grin on her face. Goofy and laughable when she wanted to be... with a subtle appreciation for little brown frogs. His smile twirked up higher. They had never argued about giving _her_ a nickname.


	19. Chapter 19

**O_O I am slowly losing trust in your powers of observation. In that last chapter, you should've been able to figure out who Silla is. But since you didn't, this chapter shall quell your questions for you. ;) Enjoy. :) For suffering through eighteen terrible chapters in this story of mine, you deserve it.**

**This chapter is Iris', because she deserves much more for helping with TSF and not being in this story than she has gotten. :) Thanks, Iris.**

**-=-(*)-=-**

**Chapter Nineteen**

_"Thank you," the woman whispered softly, nodding._

_The girl outside the door flushed a delighted red and curtsied. "Thank you, milady." She hurried off down the hall._

_The woman shut the door quietly and turned around, balancing the tray carefully with one hand before she could steady it with the other. "Kate?"_

_"Whatever you have is fine," the man's sister scanned the selections and chose a glass of mulled wine. "Thanks."_

_"Ale," the man's brother stated flatly with the air of someone who knew _exactly_ what he wanted, before she could ask him. Grinning, the woman tipped the tray and the full ale mug nearest the edge slid off. Only his quick reflexes enabled him to catch it without spilling anything._

_His sister snorted. "You ought to have thrown the whole tray over his head."_

_The woman laughed and turned to her husband, raising an eyebrow. He shook his head. Placing the tray on the center table, she grabbed herself the one glass of apple cider on the tray._

_"To a dead Vesper," the person with ale declared. "Because we all know the only good one, is a dead one." He raised the mug with an over-kill of joyous congratulations and swallowed half of the drink with one draught. His sister glared at him and sipped daintily. His brother raised an eyebrow with amused tolerance._

_The woman couldn't even drink to that because every time she tried, she burst out into giggles which would've sprayed her companions with cider. Finally she set the drink down, giving up. She settled on watching the door as the other three continued with small-talk. It was easy to hear the footsteps in the hallway, but the ones that went by were heavy, or the controlled clip-clip of some dutiful countess. She closed her eyes, imagining for the hundredth time she was hearing her son's steps in the hall. Perhaps even Peter's._

_She jumped a foot when someone knocked at the door and without hesitation, she scurried up to go get it-_

_"Silla..."_

_She glared at him - momentarily dismissing the nickname - for his cautious gaze. "Honestly... I'd get killed either way."_

_He shot her The Look, forcing her to turn away smiling. Hurrying through the entranceway, she undid the latch. Giving a final, silent prayer, she opened the door. "MUM!" She stumbled backwards as a wild little boy flew into her arms._

_"Oh, Winnie..." She clung to him tightly. "I don't ever want you to leave without our permission again. It doesn't matter how well you know where Mary lives. Do you hear me?"_

_"I have ears..." the boy muttered._

_"Win_nie_..." Giving him a gentle kiss on the cheek, she set him down and let him run off. "Peter?"_

_The little boy's chubby face was illuminated with a happy grin, proudly showing two baby teeth - one on the bottom, one on the top. He clapped his hands, reaching for her._

_She took him in her arms and held him._

_The guard bowed._

_"Thank you, Raoul," she breathed, closing her eyes and turning into Peter's cheek slightly so he wouldn't see her emotions getting the best of her. "Thank you... for all you did."_

_"Thank _you_, milady." He bobbed his head again, smiling. "I don't think I would be here now if you hadn't sent me home."_

_"Is your family safe?"_

_"As safe as yours, milady."_

_They smiled and he turned to leave._

_"Not without my gratitude." The man appeared against the wall, although standing, bracing himself heavily with one arm. "My thanks for convincing my wife to come and save me."_

_"_Luke_!"_

_He laughed. "Thank you, Raoul."_

_"My duty, milord." The guard turned again and that time the woman shut the door gently after him._

_No sooner had they turned around than there was another knock. "Good grief..." the woman glanced at her husband and he shook his head, shrugging. Motioning her to go sit down, she hear him open the door and have a soft conversation with someone._

_"Winthrop Cahill! How many times do I have to tell you-" she whistled a light, warning slap down on the boy's head as he dived away from the mulled wine he'd been close to sipping._

_"It's not like it's _bad_ for you."_

_She glared at him._

_"Fine... fine..." His mouth twisted down into a pout. "Hey Uncle Tom."_

_The young man raised an eyebrow. "Funny how three words can make you feel old."_

_"Can I have a sip?"_

_"_Winthrop!_"_

_His uncle laughed. "I think your mother would kill me. Do you know how to thumb war?"_

_The boy's eyes lit up. "Try me."_

_He laughed. Scooting down on the ground, they bunched their fists up and began a ferocious game of the thumbs, complete with sound effects and malicious faces. The woman was interrupted from watching them by an announcement of surprise by her sister-in-law. "Aren't you a bit young to be a musician?"_

_The boy flushed a heated pink from under his cap that matched the strands of bright red hair. "I'm fifteen! Hum any song, and I'd bet my wages I can play it."_

_The man's brother glanced up long enough to allow the quick-thumbed boy to pin twist his entire hand down. "Good gri- What about a jig. Can you play that?"_

_The man sank back into his previous seat. "Isn't that a bit lively for tonight?"_

_His younger counterpart snorted. "I think Winnie and I've still got a bit of life in us. How about it?"_

_The boy grinned. Digging into his breeches' pocket, he spontaneously pulled a flute out of it and it was as if he'd pulled it out of air. The pocket had been enlarged downward. The woman smiled, rather pleased at her sister-in-law's hidden surprise. "What kind of jig?" The boy asked._

_"Any kind." Pulling the five-year-old up from the floor, the uncle gaily began to whistle along with the flute, showing the boy the steps as they went along until both of them were flying over the floor and the whole company was laughing except for the red-faced player - who was grinning._

_All three of them collapsed into their seats then; the boy on the floor with his flute._

_The man raised an eyebrow. "That wasn't half bad."_

_"_Half bad-_?" The boy caught himself. "My pardons, milord."_

_The man waved him off. "Try this one."_

_The woman closed her eyes at the sound of the whistling. It was a lively song, but not like the jig. More exactly... sheep, perhaps... playing; children laughing. She opened a slight eye to see her sister and brother-in-law staring at him as if he were perfectly insane. The tune changed into a beckoning then, a light-hearted, good-natured call, and closing her eyes, the woman hugged her son tighter. After a moment, the flute took it up and it was played slower, then picked up speed. The sound alone became a yearning for home in so few measures. She could feel her heart being shattered - if she hadn't been sitting at home that very minute. And then, it filled her with utter contentment to be here. To be alive. To have her son sitting on her lap and her husband beside her. Yet it only took a few minutes before the song had ended._

_The woman opened her eyes, suddenly aware of feeling as if she'd been to fight a war and back. Her son was on his aunt's lap and her face was buried against him; she was crying. Uncle fiddled with his ale mug, twirling it on its base edge while stony-faced._

_"Thank you," the man whispered. "That will be all."_

_The boy started, as if bumped out of a reverie. "Are you sure, milord?"_

_"Thank you." He handed him a coin._

_"I- I can't... milord, that's triple-"_

_The man caught his gaze. "Few can play that song with the mastery you exhibited. I haven't heard it in a very long time; you have done me a great favor. My thanks."_

_The boy hesitated, then nodded. "Good night, milord."_

_The man tilted his head back. "Godspeed."_

_Another few moments and there was the sound of the door shutting softly. Nobody said a word._

_Finally his sister sniffed. "You would."_

_"Do...?"_

_"TELL A STUPID, TRAVELING MINSTREL TO PLAY BRAILE ANOIS!" She exploded, picking the little boy up and gently placing him on the side of the seat - hiding her tears with a quick peck-kiss to his cheek. He wiped it off when she wasn't looking._

_The man stared at here. "You... you didn't... see?"_

_"See? What is there to see? A scruffy, ragamuffin, wanna-be musician playing _our _song?"_

_He suddenly started laughing. "You... don't _see_!"_

_"Shut up, Luke Cahill," his sister snapped. "What's going on?"_

_"_Think_," he managed, still half-chuckling. "_Think_, Kate. Who can play that good - on a flute, no less; knows Braile Anois, and has red hair?"_

_"John, apparently," his brother muttered, picking himself up off the floor and plopping back in the chair he'd been sitting in before. "Don't look at me that way. I heard everything you were talking about in the hallway over there."_

_"John," the man persisted. "_Think_."_

_His sister glared at him. "Fine. John. Red hair; plenty of people have red hair. And _our song_."_

_"Not specifically _our _song. Plenty of people heard father play it."_

_"John... John..." His sister ignored the barb. "J... Red hair... oh, _Jane_. Jane! Luke Cahill, you fool!"_

_The man smiled slightly._

_"Hang on for a minute," his brother held up a hand. "Jane. Granted. But..." Slipping up, he strode across the room, heading towards the entranceway as the beginning sounds of rushed footsteps could be heard._

_The man shoved himself to his feet, groaning as the ribs his wife's sister had taped cracked maliciously. "Thomas-"_

_The door burst inward and the boy was thrown in - missing his cap. Shaking the scruffy strands of hair out of his eyes, he - or she - curled up her lip and sneered at the guards with a venomous glare tacked onto the end of it. "A woman, milord," the first guard spat. "Caught entering the castle by impersonating a boy."_

_The second guard stepped forward, grabbing the girl with a rough hand on her shoulder and giving her a shake. "Nothing less than dea-"_

_"Leave at once!" The man barked. He leaned heavily against the wall, eyes shooting deadly daggers at the second guard._

_The guards let up, startled. But they obeyed, most likely imagining the lord wanted to do his work in private. The door clicked shut behind them._

_"Thomas," the man nodded back in the sitting room. "Please."_

_His brother shrugged and obeyed._

_The lord's gaze instantly narrowed as his eyes focused on the girl. Her eyes widened and it seemed as if she shrank back. "You think I didn't know?" He finally spoke. The words were minced and precise; low enough that they couldn't be clearly heard from the area behind them - except perhaps by his brother. "You take me for a fool, girl?"_

_"No... no, milord."_

_"Do you really believe Braile Anois is so popular? Answer me! There is nothing on the floor; the maid just cleaned it."_

_"I- _I_ like it..." she whispered hesitantly. "Here," she suddenly blurted out. "Give me five weeks. I'll play anything you like on any instrument you want. Find someone else to do the same thing; I'll play it better than them."_

_The lord raised an eyebrow with a bored expression. "A contest? What if I found a Scotsman? Do you play the bagpipes as well as the fife?"_

_"Five weeks," she breathed quickly. "I can learn any instrument in five weeks."_

_The lord crimped an eye, mouth curling up in a disbelieving sneer. "Truly?"_

_"It's- it's not that uncommon," she managed. It seemed a rehearsed line, as if many people before him had seemed suspicious on the quickness of an instrument being learned that fast._

_He sniffed disdainfully. "And where is your family? I find it astonishing they would leave you to such... entreats."_

_"My mother died when I was born; I lived with my sisters and my father," she whispered softly. "But the others married, and their husbands wouldn't have it that I come live with them; and father died... from the plague."_

_"You have no one."_

_She swallowed, shaking her head slowly._

_Snorting, the man curled his lip up. "You're a fanciful liar, Jane Cahill. Thankfully, I don't believe you."_

_The girl's face turned a pasty pale. "I told no one-" She fell back, catching herself against the wall. "... you..." she breathed._

_The man's expression melted away, revealing a thin smile. "Apparently searching all over Ireland wasn't enough to find you; I needed to look in London right under my own nose."_

_"Luke..." her voice broke. "I... never thought. I just figured - there must've been so many Luke Cahills in the world-"_

_The man opened his arms. She flew into them, a free-lance tear trickling down her cheek. He grunted in pain, stiffening, but he hugged her back. "Father would be proud of you," he finally whispered. "Few masters would be able to play Braile Anois so well if they had a lifetime of practice."_

_They turned after a moment, the girl so wrapped in her happiness she didn't notice her older brother leaning slightly against her. In the adjoining sitting area, the younger brother was once again on the floor, infuriating the man's son by cheating on 'bunny holes'. Their sister was staring off into the distance. "My son," the man smiled, nodding slightly to the boy on the floor. "Winthrop. And our second, Peter. The one who we haven't decided whether it's a girl or a boy hasn't come out yet." The man's eyes crimped lightly, "And... this is my wife. Silla."_

_The woman flushed. "I would think you'd have enough common sense to introduce me by my real name, Luke Cahill!"_

_"Of course," he mockingly rolled his eyes. "My wife: Pulta. She prefers nicknames when talking to other people, but her real-"_

_"Pulta _is_ a nickname!"_

_The girl laughed. "I always wished I were an aunt; I didn't think I already was one, though! May I..." she hesitated. "May I hold him?"_

_"Of course," the woman motioned for her to sit on the floor and she carefully handed over the wiggling Peter. "Be careful. He's particular."_

_"Particular about who?" The girl crooned. She paused then as Peter whirled out a squabble of baby-talk and her eyes lit up. She gave a few hiccupping burps as a reply._

_The man sat down in the spot he'd inhabited earlier, raising an eyebrow._

_"Oh, it's simple," she replied to the unspoken question. "Each one of them has their own language. He sounds exactly like Theophilus, the son of the lady who lives next door to me. I watch them all the time for her when she goes to the market."_

_The man leaned against the back of his chair. "Good grief... What does he want, then?"_

_"Well..." she paused, listening to his technically indecipherable, incomprehensible chatter. "... he's excited about someone knowing what he's talking about, for one. And he wishes you wouldn't..." she listened a moment more. "... take him out in the garden so much; he hates it when a..." she giggled at the idea. "... a butterfly goes by and he can't chase it."_

_The woman laughed. "Tell him it's for his own good."_

_The little aunt gave a hiccup, tapped her nose and giggled. The boy sighed, closed his eyes and went to sleep. "They always find talking exhausting," Jane supplied. "They have a limited vocabulary; but if you know it, then it helps them learn the real one."_

_"You're the new nurse," the man stated flatly._

_She laughed. "Oh, but I can't." Handing the baby back to his mother, she shrugged helplessly. "It's taken me too long to get where I am. Which... actually... makes me wonder-" she glanced at her brother._

_"You're perfectly fine," he winked quickly. "Your only trouble might be with Kate and Tom..."_

_Their sister blinked, "Right. Sorry. I won't tell about the disguise or anything. You had me fooled with that crop of hair, by the way."_

_Their brother shrugged, busy on pinning his nephew's lightning-quick thumb down. "You're good."_

_"I... I do have to go," she admitted. "I wish I didn't... I've got an audition tomorrow at sunup; twenty people are trying for the part..."_

_"Hurry home," the man tweaked her nose gently. "And no staying up later than eight."_

_"I'm fifteen now..." she muttered under her breath, gathering up her cap from where nobody had noticed it on the floor. "Good night."_

_A soft chorus of sincere, and absent-minded 'good nights' followed after her, as well as a single 'Gaa-go', making her laugh._

**-=-(*)-=-**

_"Winnie and Peter are in bed... Jane will come by whenever she can; Thomas and Katherine back on the road. Home..." The woman whispered. She yawned, closing her eyes. "It's so good to be back, isn't it?"_

_"If I didn't know better," her husband smiled, "I'd think you'd liked it better traveling."_

_"Luke..." But she curled up beside him, smiling. The fire, rather diagonally to their right, crackled brightly._

_He kissed her softly. "It seems so odd, doesn't it? We've been worrying about everything for the past year and a hal- well, three quarters really; and now..."_

_She giggled. "-Nothing. It's so boring."_

_"Boring...?" Running a hand over her belly, they smiled as the baby gave a final, sleepy kick. "Not with three pairs of little feet running about."_

_Her smile faded and she turned into his shoulder._

_"What?"_

_"Now..." she hesitated. "Now I have to worry about leaving again... Worrying about you was much more occupying; this just... stays in your mind..."_

_Wrapping his arms about her, they waited for nothing, allowing themselves to hang in the stillness. Outside the curtained windows, the ghostly shape of drip-drop, lead snowflakes trickled down - some resting on the windowsill._

_They both jumped as a racket burst from the closet. "_... good grief, can't they- LAPULTA CAHILL!_"_

_The woman leaped to her feet and scurried over to open the door. A figure tumbled out, glaring at her, wrapped securely in the engulfing arms of a large, leather jacket. "Don't you know when enough is _enough_? I mean... clean out the darn thing! It took me a month to get here - well, five minutes, technically, but the span was a month... Leave a note to tell me when you've gone, _please_?"_

_Flushing, the woman untied her sister - with a rather smug smile on her face. "Sorry. Short notice troubles; his fault."_

_"Whatever. Here. I brought his supreme lordship Cahill a couple wraps..." The woman ignored her sarcasm with an amused smile. "-every week, remember? And you... Oh, right." Her sister dug around in the back of the closet, back turned. Her voice was muffled. "Guess what?"_

_"A box of chocolates," the woman grinned._

_"Nope."_

_"Hm... Spaghetti? I really do miss that spaghet-"_

_"Come on... non-edible." Her sister was right-side-up now, clutching a box of something where the woman couldn't see it._

_"Oh." The woman snorted. "My wedding present? After a year and a half? Wow, Rage..."_

_The man laughed in the background._

_"_Open it,_" her sister glared at her._

_Shrugging, and still laughing slightly, the woman took the box and opened it. She raised a confused eyebrow. "It's a mirror... without the glass. Without anything, actually... in twenty parts-"_

_"It's no ordinary mirror." Her sister snatched the box out of her hands, grabbed a piece, and fit it in with the next one. They snapped together, and the woman realized that the wires were holding them adjoined. One by one, her twin completed the mirror until there was only one wire sticking out - a plug. Racing over to the generator while battling cumbersome jackets and boots, she plugged it in, flicked a switch on the oak edgeboard and a ring of lasers shot out of the inner rim to make a red blanket where the glass should've - or would've been._

_"Impressive," the woman added, still rather confused. "And do I look into it and see a hologram of anyone I want to?"_

_Her sister glared at her. "_Listen,_ will you? You're giving that kid inside you a bad example. No, silly. It's fixed."_

_"What's fixed?"_

_"That's why it took so long to get done. I had to fix the switches."_

_"You could've just gone to Home Depot...?"_

_"No!" Her sister rubbed her temples. "Good grief... the _time_ switches, Lapulta. I had to fix the _time _switches. Everything should work now; it's like Alice. You step through, you get there - like you traveled to Antarctica instead of the past."_

_The woman stared at her for a long moment._

_A smile slipped over her twinsie's face. "Go on. The mirror only connects to other mirrors, and the only other two are in my lab - only one's on. Try it through the time machine and make sure it works. Don't look at me, it's your wedding present."_

_Hesitating for a long moment, the woman slipped inside the closet. There was a hum from the machine as it transferred her, and then silence. The mirror flickered once, then she stepped out of the mirror, brushing off a sleeve. "It's..." she smiled, looking back over her shoulder. "It's... amazing, Rage. See?" She smiled. "I always knew you could do it."_

_Her sister snorted. "Do you like it? I was debating painting it pink..."_

_"_No_." The man said firmly, making the two women whirl towards him and jump at how quietly he'd made his way to stand beside them. "Brown is fine."_

_"It's wonderful," the woman whispered. She suddenly choked, and a soft tear slid down her cheek. "It's everything I ever could've wanted."_

_Her sister fidgeted, a clandestine grin in the corners of her eyes. "Thanks. I tried, anyway. You'll visit often, won't you, Laps?"_

_"Rage vonStarling!" The woman brushed away another tear. "If you think that I'm- I'm going to take this and abandon you to crash cars without me, you're very- much mistaken!"_

_The man wrapped his arms around her, and she turned away to stop her over-flowing tears. Her sister raised an eyebrow at him warily. "Well? Forgive me yet?"_

_"I think it's a possible idea to start over. Hm?"_

_She rolled her eyes and stuck out her hand. "Hello, then. My name's Rage."_

_He stared at the hand. "I also think you've missed the introductionary part of me when I say: greetings are overrated."_

_"Phhhht." His sister-in-law glared at him. "How she puts up with you... I'll never know..."_

_"Some mysteries are never to be discovered."_

_"Right." She rolled her eyes again and snorted, taking up the empty box. "I'm going to call up Scotland Yard and tell them I've got the greatest man after Sherlock Holmes. Then that'll give them a good 'mystery' to work out."_

_"Rage, wait." The woman threw her arms around her sister, hugging her for a long moment. Another tear slipped away from the corner of an eye. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you with all my heart."_

_Her sister shrugged modestly. "You're welcome. Now... for the flying Subaru..."_

_She stepped through the mirror then, the three of them laughing._


	20. Chapter 20

**Last chapter. :)**

**I really want to say thank you, to you guys. You've done so much, and encouraged me, and given me lots of help to continue this. As I'm publishing this, I just finished my first fiction work (!yay!) and I doubt it wouldn't have been, if not for your advice, and of course, for the help of Ariana Wells. :) Thanks, Mrs. Wells.**

**So once more, thanks guys, and I hope you enjoy this. :)**

**-=-(*)-=-**

**Chapter Twenty**

"... good grief... I'm sick of these..."

Luke tugged off the collar while glancing around the room. Nobody. Frowning, he stepped out of the entranceway and looked closer. He spotted her then, standing in a red dress that blended her in with the curtains. She was leaning against the edge of the sill, caressing the bulge under the velvet with both hands. Her eyes wavered as they looked over the green expanse of grass, then the treeline beyond; they held something he couldn't quite name... Not really unusual - she was forever changing expressions - but thought-provoking nonetheless.

"Silla?"

She turned, eyes lighting up happily and the look instantly disappeared. "Oh good. You're back. And... how did it go?"

The same question for the past year and a half. He smiled. "The usual."

She reached out and grabbed both sides of the cloak he was wearing, pulling him to her with her ever-present look of impishness. "Please, tell me you were not dying of boredom this time..."

He laughed and grabbed her wide hips.

She rested her hands on top of his as they smiled together. "You were gone for three hours... Papa."

"Many things can happen in three hours; just as they can happen in a year."

"A lot..." she left off the rest of her sentence - or his - he figured he never really know; and the look crept back into her eyes. She looked over her shoulder out the window again.

"What is wrong?" He whispered.

"Nothing." Her head snapped back instantly, and once again, the look evaporated. "Nothing. Just... thinking."

"About what?"

"Nothing." Pulling away from him, she slipped back to the window, resting her hand lightly on the iron crossbeams.

"Pulta..." He glanced away to set the distasteful collar on the couch. When he looked up, she'd disappeared - but the door to the balcony was open, letting in the twilight breeze and twisting the ruby curtains every which way. Following where she must've gone, he peered out. The balcony was nothing exciting; perhaps a few feet away from the wall until a mable railing penned them in. For unknown reasons, she seemed to like it there. "You are worried," he whispered.

She jumped, startled. The stars above them twinkled their delightful little twinkles as he wrapped his arms about her rounded waist - just to be certain she wouldn't have a sudden desire to see how it felt jumping into the lush, emerald grass of the garden below.

"You do not always act like this. What is it?"

"Nothing." But her hands slid over her belly, feeling the baby quietly sleeping there. "Nothing. It is nothing."

"You are never worried about nothing. You always have many things on your mind. I may not be perfect, but you are never closed."

Pulta leaned against his shoulder, closing her eyes and burying her head in his tunic. Curling a strand of her hair about his middle finger, Luke waited, silent. "I was not always an open book."

"True. Not to me."

She smiled. "I am never an open book to those who I do not want to be."

"Was that a challenge?"

He found her lips and held her there for a long moment before they broke apart, laughing and turning their faces up to the stars until she looked away at the prim, kept forest surrounding the castle.


End file.
